


Ricochet

by thingsbaker



Series: Titanium [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, but not of the main characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-08 17:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15248778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsbaker/pseuds/thingsbaker
Summary: Yakov suffers a heart attack at the Grand Prix final in Marseille. Now, in a competition where the hardest part should have been competing against his own coach, Yuuri finds that helping Victor cope with -- and fill in during -- Yakov's absence is an even greater challenge.





	1. Arrivals and Departures (Dec. 6)

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: There are a few scenes throughout where characters discuss a heart attack and its consequences. There's very little detailed observation of any of this, but in case that's not your thing, be warned! 
> 
> Content rating will increase slightly with later chapters.

By the time the 2016 Grand Prix came around, Yuuri had traveled with Victor and Yakov and the Russian contingent enough to understand their travel routine. First, everyone showed up at the rink to travel together to the airport, giving Yakov a chance to approve their apparel. He didn’t care what they wore as long as it was weather-appropriate and something that could be photographed without needing censorship: no political statements, no curse words, and (thanks to Georgi) no photos of other skaters printed onto their shirts. Yakov handled all of the ticket purchasing, which was done through sponsorship deals and often meant first class. Yuuri somehow managed to gain these upgrades, too, which Victor just shrugged and smiled about. They were expected to check themselves in and handle their own luggage, but everything else was managed.  
  
Once at their destination — and they flew as directly as possible, always — they stumbled off the plane, and Yakov spent the next thirty minutes stretching his arms out to catch either Victor or Yuri by the backs of their coats as they were distracted by this shiny object or that. Reserved transportation always awaited, and their checked baggage was loaded into the back. Yakov always found fault with the shuttle, though Yuuri saw that he also tipped extravagantly, not unlike Victor. While the skaters tended to rile each other up on the drive, taking selfies and talking about the city’s nightlife, Yakov generally reviewed printed paperwork kept in a leather folder.  
  
This folder was carried, next, to the front desk of the hotel. While the skaters milled about in an exhausted clump, Yakov ironed out their reservations. Finally, he handed out keys and tailor-made lectures about expected behaviors, check in times, practice requirements, and such, then herded the younger skaters into a line and saw them to their doors, always just across from his. No matter what time they arrived, everyone was expected to go to their rooms and stay there for at least the first two hours, as it was understood that this was necessary meditation time for Yakov. (Victor explained, after Yuuri started to ask what type of meditation he practiced, that it was the Russian type, which involved vodka and a nap).  
  
Victor was able to stay on a separate floor if he paid for his own room (he always did), and he was usually given a special lecture about a) spending his money in ridiculous ways and b) being an unseemly role model/poor influence by sleeping over with his protégé. When Yakov was in a truly foul mood, he would start to question the cultural norms of where they were staying and their acceptance of cohabitation among non-married couples, a diatribe that always made Yuuri’s face burn and his feet sprint for the nearest elevator. Victor swore it was just Yakov’s way of showing that he cared.  
  
Aside from that, Yuuri liked the travel pattern, overall. He liked the predictability of it. It made it easier for him to float within the group. It also gave him the rare chance to show Yakov that he could be a good partner for Victor, as he was able to keep him from running off to duty-free and, sometimes, even from engaging in the childish back-and-forth between Yuri and Mila. Yuuri only knew that Yakov appreciated this because they had shared, twice, long, understanding eye-rolls just before Yuuri had pulled Victor away from the scrum.  
  
When they arrived in Marseille that winter for the Grand Prix Finals, Yuuri had the travel pattern down just enough that he could spot the differences.  
  
They’d traveled for six hours, total, which really wasn’t bad. Their stop in Amsterdam had been blessedly short, and their flights had been free of turbulence and full of friendly service. Still, Yakov was in a poor mood as they arrived, and Yuuri couldn’t quite pinpoint the source.  
  
He knew, by now, that Yakov Feltsman didn’t get nervous about competitions. Worked up, perhaps, when his skaters weren’t doing as they’d been told, but that manifested as rink-side yelling, not the quiet, dour mood he’d been in most of the day. He usually spent his travel time deeply involved with his leather folio, which held a season’s worth of notes on his own skaters and their major competitors, as well as local information about the rink and other important resources. (Yuuri had needed to have a tear mended in his costume during Worlds the year before, and Victor had appealed to Yakov’s folio instead of Google for the name of a reliable nearby tailor. “He has everything in there,” Victor had said, shrugging, and Yuuri had been impressed).  
  
Today, though, Yakov was restless on the flight, getting up twice to use the lavatory in the short trip from Amsterdam to Marseille. The folio didn’t make it into his hands; instead, he spent part of the trip looking out the window, and part of it trying to sleep under a mask.  
  
“Is Yakov all right?” Yuuri asked as they deplaned.  
  
Victor looked up, briefly, from his phone. “Hmm? I’m sure he’s fine. He had to sit by Yuri, after all. It would wear on anyone.”  
  
Yuuri sighed. “Be serious a minute.”  
  
“I am,” Victor said, taking Yuuri by the shoulders. He’d worn a stylish white sweater and gray pants on the flight, and even deplaning, he looked like a gorgeous tourist, ready for all Marseille had to offer. Yuuri felt like the walking embodiment of the clothes at the bottom of his hamper. “Now, stop worrying about my coach and worry about yours. How will people know I’ve arrived if I don’t post a selfie?”  
  
Yuuri managed a smile for the picture, but he kept an eye on Yakov, anyway. Something just wasn’t quite right.  
  
At the hotel, they went through the usual, but Yakov cut his own lectures short. “Vitya,” he said, as the younger skaters began to cluster by the elevators, “take them all to dinner tonight.”  
  
Victor raised his eyebrows. “But Yakov, I —“  
  
“What? You eat with Katsuki alone every night,” Yakov said, grumbling. “This isn’t a special couple’s weekend. It’s the Grand Prix. And I need to be sure that they don’t wander off. Think you can manage that, Coach Victor?”  
  
Yuuri took Victor by the elbow. “Da,” he said, before Victor could say anything embarrassing about his (doubtlessly romantic) plans. “We can.”  
  
Yakov gave him a long look, much like those shared airport eye-rolls, half affection for Victor, half assessment of Yuuri. “Good. I’ve made a reservation at a cafe nearby. No alcohol for anyone. Curfew by nine.”  
  
“But Yakov,” Victor tried, again, spreading out his hands, “where will you be?”  
  
He grunted. “Asleep. You can give me the receipts afterward.”  
  
He left to herd the rest of the group, and Victor peered down at Yuuri with a frown. “Why did you volunteer us for that?”  
  
“I think Yakov might be ill,” Yuuri said, which made Victor turn back toward Yakov. “He hasn’t looked so good all day.”  
  
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”  
  
This, actually, was sort of amusing. Of the two of them, Victor was usually the more observant: he noticed others’ attitudes and dispositions naturally, filing the information away in order to better deploy his most targeted charm later. He had blind spots, though, for those closest to him, those he’d let in enough to take for granted, and Yakov was certainly at the top of that particular list.  
  
They walked to the elevators, where Yakov’s group had already left. Yuri appeared at their elbows, dragging his suitcase and not sparing either of them a glance.  
  
“It’s unusual, though,” Yuuri said. “He didn’t look well after we landed.”  
  
The doors opened, and they filed in, Yuri behind them. “What? Who’s sick?” Yuri asked.  
  
“Yakov,” Yuuri said. “I think he may not feel well. Victor, just in case, maybe you should check on him before we go to dinner.”  
  
Victor frowned. “Have you ever woken Yakov from a nap? Actually, no, I know you haven’t, as you are still alive and have all of your limbs.”  
  
“I never agree with Victor, but I agree with Victor,” Yuri said, staring at his phone. “The old man will be fine. Worry about your own routines, losers.”  
  
He stepped off on the same floor as Yakov, and Yuuri marveled for a moment that someone could make dragging a suitcase into an action of aggression. Yuri still had to stay on the same floor as Yakov, despite being a seniors skater, because of his age; however, Yakov seemed to afford him some additional independence. Yuuri had wondered in the past if it was simply that Yakov understood the danger in trying to exercise some kind of parental control over Yuri Plisetsky.  
  
The doors slid closed, and Yuuri looked over at Victor. He was smiling in an indulgent and slightly insulting way.  
  
“Fine,” Yuuri said, shrugging. “You know him better.”  
  
“It’s nice, though.” Victor slid closer, one arm around his shoulders. “Worrying after our coach. You’ve really become one of the team!”

* * *

  
They collected the rest of the Russians from the lobby at 6 p.m. There were eight of them in all: Yuuri, Victor, Yuri, and Mila, all competing in seniors; Ekaterina and Ilya, a juniors pair; and Nathalie and Vadim, skating singles in juniors. Yuuri had turned 25 recently, and Victor would be 29 in two weeks, but next to the group of boisterous teenagers, he suddenly felt like a middle-aged father. Victor towered over all of them. “All right, it’s only a kilometer and you’ve got energy, so we walk,” he said, herding them toward the doors. “Last chance to run up and get your jackets.”  
  
They all professed appropriate Russian imperviousness to the cold, and Yuuri wondered whether he’d be perching his own coat around Ekaterina’s thin shoulders by the end of the night. Perhaps Victor would spring for a cab back from the restaurant for them all. The younger skaters paired up to walk, Ekaterina and Nathalie giggling over something on their phones while Ilya and Vadim played a game of jostling elbows. Yuri, who at 16 was only a year older than Nathalie and two ahead of the others, held himself distant, snarling at Mila for most of the walk. That left Yuuri and Victor at the rear, Victor calling out directions as they strolled. Yuuri took the time to text Phichit and Christophe with updates about their own evening plans. Phichit agreed to meet up once he was back at the hotel from his own dinner, and Christophe wasn’t getting in until the next day, it turned out, thanks to a delay in Bern.  
  
“Oh, too bad,” Victor said. “Well, we’ll catch him tomorrow. It’s nice to have the extra day.”  
  
Yuuri agreed. They’d come in with a little extra time because none of the juniors had been to a GPF before, and Yakov felt that acclimatizing to the rink was vital. It also allowed more time for media meetings during the day leading up to the start of competition, for which Yakov made all of his skaters available.  
  
Dinner was a boisterous affair for the Russians and a confusing one for Yuuri. They spoke mostly Russian amongst themselves, though all of the seniors were fluent in English. Ekaterina and Nathalie both spoke some English, but neither Vadim nor Ilya tried that evening. This was fine with Yuuri, who sat between Victor and Mila and generally tried not to wonder about what the boys at the end of the table were plotting. As long as they survived their meal and didn’t sneak a bottle of vodka home somehow, he figured they were, really, Yakov’s problem.  
  
Yakov had picked a French restaurant with a heavy emphasis on seafood, and so they were all able to find suitably lean protein and vegetables for dinner. Their waiter appeared mildly scandalized when Yuuri turned away the wine list (and limited Victor to his single ordered glass), but otherwise, all went well. Victor paid the bill and did, at Yuuri’s suggestion, pay for cabs to take them back to the hotel.  
  
As they all shuffled around, Yuuri thought about the juniors. This was the most time they’d ever really spent together, in a small group, and he found them to be genuinely interesting. He hadn’t interacted with them much at the rink, but he saw them sometimes during all-rink stroking practices (Yuuri didn’t have to attend those, but Victor did) or going in and out from their own sessions. Vadim was a year and a half younger than Yuri Plisetsky, with none of the anger but at least half of the on-ice grace. He hadn’t mastered any major quads yet, but Yuuri had seen him watching Victor’s practices with the same wide-eyed envy he’d once felt. It endeared the boy to him.  
  
Nathalie was shy, too, but in a friendly way; after moving over recently from a different rink, she had tucked easily into the group of junior and novice girls at the rink, and they tended to travel in a pack that Yuuri found slightly intimidating. Ekaterina was part of this group, too, though she also stood apart. As far as Yuuri knew, she and Ilya were the only pair skaters that Yakov was currently coaching, and this was as a favor to someone. It was unusual, though not unheard of, for a singles skating coach to take on pairs or dancers. Yakov himself had been a pair skater when he had competed, so Yuuri wondered if there was some bit of nostalgia in the choice (not that he would ever admit this to Yakov).  
  
“Everything all right?” Victor asked, looping an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders in the car.  
  
Yuuri nodded. “Fine,” he said, settling comfortably against him. In truth, it was fine, better than, actually. When they went out in St. Petersburg, it was usually with the older skaters — Georgi, Mila, and whomever they were dating these days — and the conversations were rowdier and demanded more drinking. Yuuri found this type of relatively quiet family dinner to be a relief, particularly with the pressures of the GPF upon them. “When we’re back, we should do this more often,” he said, gesturing toward the cab following them.  
  
“Mm,” Victor said. “It is nice.” He rested his head against Yuuri’s. “Nerves OK?” he asked, very quietly.  
  
“Just fine,” Yuuri said, equally quiet, and Victor sighed against him.  
  
He’d done well that season under Victor’s coaching. Yuuri had taken gold at Skate America, barely beating out Otabek, and then had won gold more comfortably over Phichit and Yuri at NHK. He knew, logically, that he was prepared for this week’s competition. It helped that he’d been able to focus some of his usual internal nervousness externally, since Victor was competing, too. He’d taken gold at both Cup of China and at Skate Canada, though JJ had rallied to a silver on his home turf. Victor’s total program score at Skate Canada had been three points lower than Yuuri’s at NHK; their free skates had been almost a statistical tie. This week would be their first head-to-head competition of the season, though their days at the rink sometimes felt like one-on-one skating challenges.  
  
Yuuri loved it. He loved the thrill of real competition, and he loved the way Victor loved it, too. They’d been pushing each other relentlessly since the GPF the year before, from the moment Victor had decided to get back into competition until now. They’d skated on the same ice at last year’s Worlds, and Yuuri had been victorious — but that hadn’t felt like a fair fight. This year, he would face Victor with a full summer of practice and development under his belt, a Victor back in the bosom of his comfortably luxurious rink and his demanding coach. They were more evenly matched than Yuuri had ever dreamed.  
  
“You look like you’re plotting something,” Victor said against the side of his head. “A surprise for me, perhaps?”  
  
Yuuri laughed. “I always think of something, don’t I?”  
  
He felt Victor smile against his head. “You always do.”  
  
When they arrived at the hotel, Victor ushered them all through the lobby with the same broad motions that Yuuri had seen Yakov use, nodding with them even as he cornered them into the elevator bay. They all scrunched into a single car. Victor punched the button for the juniors’ floor, giving Yuuri a fondly exasperated look when the boys insisted that they didn’t need him to walk them back to their doors.  
  
“Whatever trouble it is you’re thinking about,” Victor said, voice perfectly serene as the elevator ascended, “please know I invented it, and therefore Yakov has had years to think about what should be the consequences for it.” The doors slid open, and Victor stepped into the hall. “Come, come, let’s —“  
  
He paused, sharply, looking toward the end of the hall. The others started to pile out, but Victor’s arm shot out, blocking their exit. He looked up at Yuuri, and his eyes were open in wide alarm.  
  
“Vitya, what —“  
  
“Take everyone to our room.” His voice was all throat, and his arm still blocked the doors.  
  
“Get out of the way,” Yuri said, shoving into Victor, and then he, too froze in place. “Yakov?”  
  
Victor gripped Yuri’s shoulder with one hand. By now, the others had started to edge close to the elevator doors. Yuuri tipped his head around the corner, and he saw what Victor was staring at.  
  
On the floor, outside of Yakov’s room, a stretcher had been lowered to the ground. Yakov lay on it, currently receiving oxygen through a mask while someone hovered over him, holding a device over his chest.  
  
“Yuuri, now,” Victor snapped, a growl of Russian. The elevator began to beep at being held open too long. “Everyone. I will join you shortly.” With that, he shoved Yuri back into the elevator, and the doors snapped closed.  
  
“What the fuck?!” Yuri shouted, and Yuuri reached around him to hit the button for their floor.

* * *

  
  
By the time Victor joined them, thirty minutes later, Yuuri had all of the Russians settled in through a mixed deployment of headphones, devices, minibar soft drinks, and F-Zero on TV in a weird English dub. Yuri was pacing by the living room window, checking his phone frantically. Mila had curled into the armchair, alternately watching him and reaching a hand over the arm to pet Ilya’s hair. Ekaterina, Nathalie, and Vadim lay in a tangle on the still-made King-sized bed, staring zombie-like at the television. When Victor walked in, Yuuri was standing at the wet bar, wondering whether they would need to fold out the living room couch and keep them all overnight.  
  
If Victor had looked older in the lobby, now he looked aged. He unwound his scarf, slowly, and handed it to Yuuri, his hand gripping Yuuri’s wrist briefly.  
  
“Is everything…” Yuuri started to ask, but Victor just shook his head, once, a delay, and then walked more fully into the main room.  
  
Ilya rose from his sullen perch next to Mila.  
  
“Victor Petrovich,” he said, “what has happened?”  
  
Victor rested a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “Everyone, come, let’s talk,” he said. He sat on the couch, and the other skaters gathered around as though it was story time: Ekaterina and Nathalie and Vadim sat on floor, Mila took a seat beside Victor, and Yuri and Ilya lurked at the side. Yuuri stayed back, leaning on the wall that separated the living room and bedroom space in their suite.  
  
“Yakov has had a heart attack,” Victor said, in English. Yuuri might have gasped, but he couldn’t tell, as everyone else seemed to have the same reaction. Victor nodded, face appropriately grave. “He called the front desk when he began to feel the symptoms, and they were able to get help to him quickly. He — they saved his life.”  
  
“Is he OK?” Vadim asked in Russian.  
  
“He is at the hospital,” Victor said, words slow, even now in his native language. “His condition is, ah, not good.”  
  
Yuri spoke, then, in English, his chosen language for rage. “What the fuck does that mean?”  
  
“He had not regained consciousness by the time they left,” Victor said, and then he repeated this in Russian, from what Yuuri could understand.  
  
“Which hospital?”  
  
“Should we —“  
  
“What should we —?”  
  
“Listen,” Victor said, putting an arm around Mila, whose eyes were glittering with tears, “For right now, there is nothing we can do. We can — they will not allow visitors at this time at the hospital, anyway, and — I need to make a few phone calls to his family.”  
  
Yuuri looked at Victor and wondered what the last half-hour had been like for him, how much he wasn’t telling them.  
  
“Will he be OK?” Mila asked.  
  
“I, ah,” Victor said, and then he sighed. “We will know more in the next few hours. He — they were able to get his heart beating, again, and so — I think that’s good. That’s good news.”  
  
“It sounds fucking awful,” Yuri said, and Yuuri privately agreed. For a heart to be started again, it would have had to stop, after all. Not good, Yuuri thought. Not good at all.  
  
“Perhaps,” Victor said. “Look, I — I’m going to make a few calls, and then I’ll go to the hospital — alone,” he insisted, as both Yuri and Ilya started to protest. “There’s no use in everyone crowding around. They have me as the contact, anyway, and Yakov would want you to get some rest.”  
  
Yuri snorted. “Right.”  
  
“Anyone who wants to is welcome to stay here,” Yuuri said, noticing Victor nod with gratitude. “Or if you’re going to wait up for news anyway, I’m sure it would be easier if we’re all in the same place.” In case it’s the worst news, he didn’t say.  
  
The girls nodded immediately; Ilya and Vadim agreed after another moment. Mila stood and said she’d lead a contingent down to get a few needed things, including phone chargers and more comfortable clothes, and then come back up. That would give Victor time to make his phone calls.  
  
They left, but Yuri didn’t. Instead, he stood in front of Victor, his arms crossed. “I should go with you.”  
  
“Why?” Victor said. “You think —“  
  
Before he could say something that would fully put Yuri’s hackles up, Yuuri interrupted. “I need you here,” he said. “They know you better than me. Ilya’s English isn’t great, and —“  
  
“His English is fine,” Victor said on a sigh. “His attitude, on the other hand…”  
  
Yuuri glanced at Yuri. “Either way, they’ll listen to you.”  
  
He saw something like surprise flicker over Yuri’s face, and then he crossed his arms. “Fine.” He pointed sharply at Victor. “But you send updates every fifteen minutes.” He stormed out before either of them could ask where and when he’d return. Yuuri sighed, deciding he’d wait and see; if he didn’t come back with the others, he’d organize a search. It would be something to do, at least, and the need to act was already itching under his skin.  
  
Victor rubbed a hand over his face, and Yuuri sat next to him on the couch, not surprised when Victor leaned in. They were both still in their clothes from dinner, though Yuuri’s shirt was now wrinkled from how many times he’d shoved up the sleeves nervously. Victor’s button-down blue shirt usually made his eyes glow, giving him the look of a magazine model just stepped off the page. Now, Yuuri thought he looked paler than usual, almost frail. “Do you want to talk about?” he asked.  
  
Victor shrugged. “I don’t know, yet,” he said. He cleared his throat. “They, ah. They let me into his hotel room, so I have —“ He held out Yakov’s recognizably old silver flip phone. “He has a sister in Yekaterinburg.”  
  
Yuuri nodded. “What about Lilia?”  
  
Victor hummed, absently. “She might know if there’s anyone else I should call," he said. “Would be nice if she was here.” He held the phone in one hand, staring down at it. In the hall, a door opened and then closed too quickly, with a bang. Victor took in one shuddering breath. “He was, ah. Not breathing. For a while.”  
  
Yuuri closed his hand over Victor’s, turned it so he could kiss the inside of his wrist. Briefly, he tried to imagine what he might feel, seeing someone — Celestino, or worse, his own father — lying so helpless and lifeless on the ground. It was nearly inconceivable. “I’m so sorry, Victor.”  
  
He nodded and squeezed Yuuri’s hand. “Me, too.”

* * *

  
  
The Russian delegation eventually all fell asleep in Yuuri’s and Victor’s room. Mila, Ekaterina, Nathalie, and Vadim fit on the bed, and Ilya slept on a roll-away that Yuuri had begged from the front desk. Yuri pulled the cushions off the couch and made himself a futon-like mattress on the floor, leaving Yuuri the lumpy couch bed. Victor had dutifully sent text updates for the first three hours at the hospital before signing off with a promise to update if anything changed. Yuuri had dozed fitfully after that, one hand clutching his phone (set on vibrate), the room cast in the blue glow of Yuri’s still-on screen.  
  
When Victor returned at 3:30 in the morning, both Yuri and Yuuri sat up. The door to the bedroom was closed, and Yuuri didn’t hear any stirring from the five people within.  
  
Victor sat heavily on the side of the bed. “He’s resting. No change. We can visit after 9.”  
  
Yuuri rested his cheek against Victor’s shoulder blade, one hand rubbing up and down his back. “OK,” he said. “Sleep now.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
Yuuri had left a pair of soft pajama pants and a clean T-shirt in the bathroom for Victor, and he nudged him that way. When he came back, he crawled in next to Yuuri without complaining about the thin mattress, a sure sign of his exhaustion. One of his hands trembled, slightly, as it came to rest on Yuuri’s chest. In the dim light, his face looked pinched, mouth closed into a thin line.  
  
“Hey, Victor,” Yuri said, voice just above a whisper.  
  
“What?” he said, rubbing his eyes.  
  
“Did you see him?”  
  
Victor sighed. “Yes.”  
  
“How was he?”  
  
“Still alive,” Victor murmured. In the dark, Yuuri could not really see his face, but he could hear Victor’s lips part, could tell he was about to speak again, but then he didn’t. Instead, he swallowed, rubbed his face again, and said, “Go to sleep, Yura.”  
  
The face that pressed into Yuuri’s shoulder a moment later felt wet. Whether it was from washing his face in the bathroom or thinking of Yakov, Yuuri didn’t know — but he held him closer, anyway.


	2. Check Ins

**WEDNESDAY, 12/7**  
  
By seven, Yuuri began to stir to the sounds of the younger skaters trying to be quiet. They tiptoed in and out to use the bathroom and whispered frantically behind the mostly closed bedroom door. At 7:15, Yuuri woke to see Ekaterina standing at the edge of the couch bed, tapping his shoulder very gently.  
  
“Yuri Mikhailovich is gone,” she said, making the name somehow into a gesture of annoyance, pointing back to the cushions where Yuri had been sleeping.  
  
Yuuri sighed. He started to turn back and wake Victor, then realized that if Victor was still sleeping at this hour, he needed the rest. His face still looked pale, even slightly greenish, in the hushed morning light.  
  
So Yuuri sat up, slowly, and nodded at Ekaterina. He grabbed his phone from the charger nearby and stumbled into the bathroom. His eyes felt gritty. He texted Yuri before taking a few minutes to get himself ready.  
  
**Yuuri** : _Where are you?_  
**Yuri** : _my room. on skype_  
**Yuri** : _not that its ur business mom_  
  
That seemed strangely healthy, all things considered, so Yuuri decided not to worry about him. That just left everyone else to worry about: the teens, Mila, Victor, and Yakov. He knew that Victor’s call to Yakov’s sister had not gone particularly well the night before. She’d cried, which wasn’t unexpected but was still something that always caught Victor completely off guard. He’d ended up offering to pay her plane fare to Marseille, then handed her off to the travel agent they always used with Yakov. After that, he’d called Lilia, who had taken the news stoically and requested an update as time allowed. Yuuri thought Victor had wanted her to volunteer to fly out, since having another adult — a coach-level adult — would have been a relief, but she had never offered.  
   
This was part of Yuuri’s concern that morning, already. Without Yakov, the younger skaters had no coach during a week that would be one of the most stressful and important of their young careers. Coaches were important to the entire process of a competition, and the way Yakov ran his team made him singularly irreplaceable. Other coaches employed assistants or brought along choreographers; with few exceptions, Yakov did not. He organized practice times, arranged and paid for travel and meals, was the keeper of costumes and skate maintenance parts, and generally smoothed his skaters’ paths through the entire experience. That didn’t even include how his skaters relied upon his attendance and comments at practice and during the competition itself - the actual coaching, which was also invaluable.  
   
Now, none of that would be available to the teens currently cuddled up in Yuuri’s room. They acted savvy and worldly — poses they’d likely stolen from Victor — but none of them, including Yuri, had ever competed this far from home without Yakov overseeing their every move. Someone would have to step in.  
  
As he brushed his teeth, Yuuri ran through possibilities in his mind. He knew many of the skaters who were present, and so by extension, he knew or knew of their coaches. Maybe some of them would be able to help them out, a bit. Celestino, for instance, might spare some time to talk through any necessary last-minute paperwork that they should be concerned about. And Victor’s own coaching experience would come in handy here, too, since he’d had a crash course in the administrative side of things during last year’s GPF.  
  
But the other pieces —  
  
Yuuri stopped. He took a few calming breaths. There was no need to worry about everything, all at once. He could just focus on the next step. Right now, he had four confused and worried teenage athletes who probably needed a dose of normalcy more than anything else, and he had a partner who desperately needed at least another hour of sleep. There was a quick way to deal with both of those.  
  
“OK,” he said, after he’d emerged from the bathroom, wearing a fresh, sponsored track suit. Ekaterina looked up from the bed, and the other three paused in their chatting, too. (Mila had a sleep mask over her eyes and, Yuuri suspected, wore either headphones or earplugs, as she hadn’t moved an inch). In their faded T-shirts and track pants, they looked like a matched set, the stereotypical Russian Teen Athlete line-up. Yuuri felt like he’d been fourteen maybe yesterday, but they looked so, so young. “Let’s go get breakfast.”  
  
Yuuri took them to the hotel restaurant and paid for the meal on Victor’s credit card. He invited Yuri, who appeared after twenty minutes looking like he hadn’t slept and then tucked into more coffee than a teenager should probably drink. Yuuri, working on a cup himself, didn’t criticize.  
  
The teens clearly had questions about Yakov, but Yuuri told them everything he knew — which was only what Victor had managed to mumble the night before — and then promised that he’d keep them updated. Then, just to help organize their minds, he had everyone walk through their schedule as planned for the day ahead. There were practice sessions and draw times starting that morning for the juniors. There was also a media meeting that Yakov had scheduled for that afternoon, before seniors started practice but after the juniors wound down.  
  
“Let Victor do that,” Yuri said, a hint of a growl on his voice. “Not like he would have let anyone else talk, anyway.”  
  
“He’ll probably take care of it, yes,” Yuuri said. “Ah, until then — I don’t know if you use social media much, but, um, —“  
  
“Keep this shit off of Twitter, or I’ll set your phones on fire,” Yuri said, and the teens seemed to collectively roll their eyes.  
  
It was strangely heartening to see how little mind they paid to his snarling. Yuuri said, “Well, just for now. It’s easier to just focus on the skating, anyway. If we need to do statements or something, ah, I’m sure Victor will help. If you want?”  
  
They agreed so easily that Yuuri was surprised. Probably, they were just in shock, ready to grab on to any guidance. Yuuri had a little of that to offer, at least. He had navigated competitions without a coach before: Celestino hadn’t always been able to travel with him to Nationals, for instance, so he understood some of the practical measures they’d need to identify. “Let me grab the shuttle schedule from the front desk, OK? We can make sure everything is set.”  
  
Together, they outlined a full schedule for the day. The teens would return to their rooms and grab their bags, and they’d all catch the shuttle to the stadium for practices. Check-in for their events ran from 9 to 2 that day, and Yuuri thought they’d be best served with early registration, so they could use their passes to get on the ice with no hint of problems. Most of the forms would have been filled out in advance, but if anything needed a coach’s signature, they’d want extra time to figure things out.  
  
Singles skaters had 40 minutes of short program practice time that day, divided into 7-minute segments after warm-ups, and pairs had thirty. Because Yakov had no ice dancers and no senior pairs, they would have two and a half hours to get lunch and rest before Mila was due back for her practice. Either Yuuri or Victor would have to accompany the teens back to the hotel, since none of them really had enough money to travel independently. Beyond that, only Nathalie had parents in attendance, which meant that someone needed to be responsible for the care and safety of the minors who had been, previously, Yakov’s charges.  
  
By the time Victor walked in at 8:15, Yuuri had finished walking through the necessary schedule pieces with the juniors. He looked better, if not completely rested, and he offered everyone a cheerful good morning. “We were talking about scheduling,” Yuuri said.  
  
“Wonderful. I’ll be gone this morning,” Victor said, and he gave Yuri a brief nod. “Yura and I are going over to the hospital to see if anything has changed. I can probably be back in time for lunch.”  
  
Yuuri nodded. He’d expected Victor’s absence, actually, but he hoped the juniors wouldn’t be disappointed that Victor would be gone that morning. Offering to go along himself was the only solution, but he wanted to make it seem as natural as possible. “I need to get registered this morning,” he said. “Would you all like me to ride along?”  
  
“Yes, please,” Vadim said, and the others quickly agreed.  
   
“If you want to go down to rinkside,” Victor said, “just say you’re filling in.”  
  
Yuuri raised an eyebrow. No one in the world would believe that he was filling in for Yakov Feltsman. They might, however, believe that he was the one who got stuck with teen skater sitting. That was more like his luck. Either way, it would allow him a little time at the rink when he wouldn’t need to worry about his own programs, so he agreed.  


* * *

  
To his surprise, no one questioned him at the rink. The organizers had already heard whispers about Yakov’s medical emergency, and they were quick to wave away the issues this caused at the sign ups. “No problem, no problem,” the woman at the table kept saying. She even let him fill in the registrations for Victor and Yuri, saying they’d catch them for signatures later.  
  
The teens filled in the spaces with information that made Yuuri blink (Date of Birth: 03-15-2002, really?), then collected their passes and waited for him at the edge of the tables. Yuuri ran into JJ, briefly, and offered the expected congratulations about his late-season medal in France.  
  
“So when am I getting that wedding invite, anyway, huh?” JJ asked, winking.  
  
“Oh, ah, we haven’t, ah, oh! My rink mates are waiting, sorry,” Yuuri said, and hurried off to urge the teens toward the locker rooms.  
  
Standing at the sideline made him feel too much like he was in the way; luckily, the juniors took pity on him and skated over with some regularity for feedback. Ekaterina and Ilya mentioned that Yakov had been wanting to watch their ending step sequence and their starting side-by-side double axels. So Yuuri watched and listened. He thought through the moves himself, thought about what little he’d seen of their routines at the rink. Ekaterina had poise on the ice; she moved gracefully if not always confidently. She lacked power, though, and the height on her jumps was noticeably lower than Ilya’s. He had excellent jumps and struggled with the musicality, sometimes timing his steps a half-beat off of where they should be cued. Together, they made for a dramatic pair, at least: Ekaterina was thin and dark-haired and small, fine-boned, while blonde Ilya had an awkwardly muscular, almost stocky frame for a 14-year-old. Yuuri would have wondered why anyone had paired them if he couldn’t see the clear chemistry between them. Ekaterina’s enthusiasm for the music and the dance elements dragged Ilya into the moment, as well, and his strength would some day let her fly.  
  
They started their routine with double axels together, ending with Ekaterina sliding briefly over the ice. She stood up and dusted herself off, eyeing Yuuri warily. She expected an explosion or a growl, he realized, but the best he could get was a shrug. “It’s mandatory, right?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Do you want, ah, an idea?”  
  
They both nodded, eager, and Yuuri thought for a moment. He knew what Yakov would say. Yakov didn’t let his skaters take moves onto the ice unless they were capable of doing them, mandatory or not. He must have believed they could do this jump. He wanted beautiful, clean runs, something that Yuuri thought might be a point that Lilia had inspired.  
  
“Would you mind running the first half again? Up to the lift.”  
  
They did, and Yuuri watched more critically, pacing back and forth at the edge to get a clearer view. It was a good program that highlighted their strengths, bringing them into close contact as often as possible. The choreographer was someone German, if Yuuri remembered correctly, brought in just to design this piece. He found himself wishing Victor was there, knowing he would likely have better ideas about how to smooth things out.  
  
When they finished, panting, Yuuri met them at the edge. They had about three minutes remaining before the next couple came on; their music continued to play. He handed them both towels and thought back through what he’d seen.  
  
“OK,” he said. “This is just an idea. It’s your piece, and I’m — clearly, I’m not your coach, not Yakov. You could also ask Victor. But…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
He nodded, hoping they would take this in the spirit it was offered. “The entry in the beginning is too much, I think. If you —“ He stepped back and tried to pantomime, on the hard ground, the small step sequence that they ran at the very beginning. Instead of closing as they had in the past, he adjusted the final turn, changing from a rocker to a bracket, then used a half-loop to turn forward into the double axel. When he came back around, he saw Ekaterina and Ilya both staring. “Ah, something like that? You don’t quite have the energy when you get to the axel, I think,” he said, shrugging. “I did an entry like that in juniors, once, it’s, ah, Victor did something like it in his waltz program, too. You have the build up from the whole cross-ice sequence, and the landing already puts you right for the spins.”  
  
Ekaterina gripped Ilya’s shoulder, and he nodded. “OK,” he said, in heavily accented English, “we will try.”  
  
They did a quick test of it then, running the change three times in a row. Ekaterina nearly fell on the second attempt, but she dug in and pulled it out with a deep bend and just a brush of her fingers over the ice.  
  
When the announcer cleared them off, Yuuri handed over their skate guards. “Do you, are you comfortable with that?”  
  
Ilya grinned. “I don’t think we’ve ever been asked that question before!” he said, laughing as they came to the exit. Practice rooms lined the hall, and they watched skaters disappearing into them, ready to run their programs on the mats, without skates. “Do you think we should run it again?”  
  
Yuuri shook his head. “Don’t overdo. You can run through at the hotel if you need to, and there’s the warm-up tomorrow.”  
  
“Yakov never wants us to jump in the public practice,” Ekaterina grumbled.  
  
Yuuri nodded in sympathy. “Victor is the same way. I think that must be where he gets it.” He looked around and didn’t see either of the other juniors, which was probably fine but still caused him an itchy, panicky feeling. “Go and cool down, if you want. I’m going to check in with the others.” They nodded, but didn’t yet move, as though waiting for something. “Ah, very good work, Ekaterina, Ilya,” Yuuri said, giving them each a short bow.  
  
“Thank you,” Ilya said.  
  
“Katya,” Ekaterina said, and Yuuri nodded.  
  
“Good work, Katya.”  
  
“Thank you!”  
  
He found the other skaters sitting placidly in the stands, tied up in their phones. Nathalie’s parents would arrive later that evening, so she was figuring out their schedule; Vadim was, adorably, watching old GPF videos on his phone, and he blushed and turned it off as soon as Yuuri stepped near. Probably Victor’s old skates, then, Yuuri decided, hiding his smile behind his hand.  
  
With the end of the pairs session, the juniors were wrapped for the day. Everyone had also attended their drawings for short program order, so there wasn’t much to do but wait for Katya and Ilya to get dressed again for the return to the hotel. Standing just outside of the locker rooms, Yuuri worried that he had’t been able to provide much in the way of guidance. Really, he mused, what they needed wasn’t for Yuuri to try and channel his inner Yakov: They needed the man himself. He hoped Victor would have good news.  
  
“Ready,” Katya said, reappearing at almost the same moment as Ilya. They had bundled into matching white coats over their leggings. Ilya came up to Yuuri’s shoulder; with his red hat pulled on, Yuuri was briefly reminded of Kenjirou Minami. “Let’s go before we have to hear any of the horrible dance music.”  
  
As they walked out into the lobby, Yuuri heard two people call his name. One was Phichit, who was just sliding his credential badge over his head. The other was a man in a lumpy sweater with a camera slung around his neck, and he advanced before Phichit had a chance.  
  
“Mr. Katsuki, what can you tell us about Yakov Feltsman’s condition? Is it serious? Is Victor withdrawing from the competition?”  
  
“What?” Yuuri managed.  
  
Another reporter had followed, right on the first’s heels. “Is it true he’s in a coma?” she said, voice as loud as a shout. Behind him, Yuuri heard Katya gasp.  
  
“No! Ah, no comment,” Yuuri said, and he gripped his skating bag, then turned the bag to face the reporters. He looked at the juniors. “The shuttle should be outside. Don’t talk to anyone, just walk right through.”  
  
The teens nodded, clustering in on each other. Yuuri held his head high, adopting the same pose he’d seen Victor take through countless press scrums in their last year. “Let us through. Please.”  
  
“Where’s Victor?”  
  
“Are you all skating without a coach?”  
  
“Where’s Plisetsky?”  
  
“Is Feltsman in the hospital?”  
  
“Was there an accident?”  
  
“Was alcohol involved?”  
  
“Do you —“  
  
“Basta!” a loud voice called out, and a strong arm suddenly appeared in front of Yuuri, blocking the nearest cameraman. Celestino had appeared and was blocking the media from one side. Yuuri turned and blocked another reporter, making a path for the teens to scramble into the waiting shuttle van. He offered a quick bow, saw Celestino smile grimly back, and then shut the van’s door behind him.  
  
In the van, Katya had her head buried in Nathalie’s shoulder. Ilya was staring straight ahead, knuckles white on his skating bag, and Vadim was peering out the window at the flashbulbs.  
  
“Is he really in a coma?” Nathalie asked.  
  
Yuuri took a seat next to Vadim, already pulling out his phone. “I don’t know,” he said. “But let’s find out.”  


* * *

  
Victor met them back at the hotel. He’d reserved a long table at the back of the hotel’s restaurant, secluded from view and far enough from any other tables that they could converse without much worry. Mila and Yuri were with him, both having gone to the hospital that morning for visiting hours.  
  
More than anything, what worried Yuuri was that Yakov’s leather folio rested in front of Victor at the table. He understood that for what it was: a sign that Victor was going to try and step into Yakov’s shoes, at least for this competition. It made his stomach roll, even as he took a seat across from him.  
  
Someone did need to play coach, after all. Yuuri knew it couldn’t be him. He had enough to deal with already. Even coming into the GPF as the reigning World Champion didn’t make it any easier to believe he’d be successful there. His routines were solid, but he already felt the pressure to perform, to defend his title, like a muffling blanket over him.  
  
Victor, though — Victor would die trying to exceed every expectation. Those teens looked up to him, and they would naturally turn to him in this crisis. Besides, to many, Victor was already the face of Russian figure skating, more so than even his coach.  
  
That didn’t mean he was ready for it, or that it was going to go well.  
  
As they ate the cheese, fruit, and vegetables Victor had ordered, he told them what they’d seen at the hospital. Yakov was in intensive care and still had not regained consciousness. They expected that he would that evening, but it was too soon to know the full extent of the damage from his heart attack. He’d been without oxygen, at least briefly, and the doctors thought he would likely need surgery to repair his heart, sooner rather than later. For now, he was breathing unassisted, which was a good sign. There was absolutely no way that he would be in any condition to attend any part of the Grand Prix, though.  
  
Mila looked like she’d been crying. Her face had been wiped clean of makeup, and she was wearing a bulky blue sweater with her arms curled into the sleeves. Next to her, Yuri was strangely silent, fiddling with his phone but never really tapping on it.  
  
“Did you see him?” Katya asked.  
  
Victor nodded, slowly.  
  
“Can we?”  
  
“No,” Yuri said, almost instantly, a bark of a reply.  
  
Victor spoke more gently. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said, “at least until the competition is over, and he’s awake. He — I don’t think he’d want any of us to see him like this.”  
  
The others seemed to take this well enough, though Ilya crossed his arms.  
  
“I’m going to talk to the press this afternoon,” Victor said. “I’ve got permission from Yakov’s sister, Irina, to give a small update on his health. Before then, I think we all need to make some plans.”  
  
Katya looked up. “What are we going to do?”  
  
Victor shrugged. “Some of that is up to you. We’re all registered, so there’s no problems there. If — if anyone doesn’t feel up to competing —“  
  
“What? No,” Nathalie said.  
  
“Fuck that,” Yuri said, and the teens nodded energetically.  
  
Victor’s mouth turned up briefly at the corner. “I didn’t think so, but I needed to offer. If everyone wants to go ahead, then, I think we need to talk about what you want and need for the rest of the week.”  
  
Vadim cleared his throat. “Yakov usually pays for food.”  
  
“Yes,” Victor said. “I can cover the expenses. Or Yuuri, too, we share an account.” He looked up at that, and Yuuri nodded. It was the least they could do, really.  
  
“I think we should stick together as much as possible,” Mila said. “Meals and on the rink.”  
  
“I agree,” Yuuri murmured. “You’ll be safer in groups. We, ah, faced some press at the rink already. They’re pretty eager for comment.”  
  
Victor nodded. “Let’s hope that boils off some after the press conference. OK, then. What do you want at rinkside? I can, I think I can be at each performance.”  
  
Yuri rolled his eyes, but Mila nodded enthusiastically, and Nathalie did the same. Vadim said, “If it is not too much trouble, please.”  
  
Katya and Ilya were whispering between themselves. “It’s OK if you don’t want this,” Victor said. “I know I’m not your coach.”  
  
“No, it’s not that,” Katya said, and then she sat up and turned to look at Yuuri. “Would you come with us? We both think it would be, we could use your insight.”  
  
“Me?” Yuuri asked, but then he took a moment to think. It still surprised him, some days, to come back from skating and see Victor’s face at the side of the rink. It was likely to be a little bit jarring for his own rink-mates, too, the ones who had skated literally under the banners Victor had won at national competitions for their entire professional lives. Yuuri was likely much, much less intimidating. “Oh, ah. Sure,” he said, with a quick shrug. “That would be fine.”  
  
“Wonderful,” Victor said. “Should we set up your practice schedules?”  
  
The others were quick to explain that they’d done this at breakfast with Yuuri. “I’m sorry,” he said, quickly, “I didn’t mean to overstep, but —“  
  
“No, it’s not, it’s great,” Victor said. “Well, good. So everyone do, ah, exactly what you have planned, and we’ll meet for dinner — oh, no, I have to meet Irina at the hospital. Ah —“  
  
 “I was going to meet up with Phichit,” Yuuri said with a shrug. “If anyone wants, they could come along.”  
  
“Phichit Chulanont?” Vadim asked, eyes wide. “The Thai skater?”  
  
“Yes,” Yuuri said, smiling a little to see someone star struck over Phichit. “Would you all like to join us?”  
  
Everyone agreed, even Mila and Yuri, and Yuuri was glad that he could count on Phichit to go with the flow. In fact, he could probably count on Phichit to sustain the conversation, which he would likely need by the end of the day.  
  
They lingered at lunch long enough that Victor had a chance to talk with everyone individually about their upcoming skates, even Yuri, who admitted he’d been expecting to receive feedback on an alteration to his final combination spin that afternoon. He was going to skate at the same practice where Victor would be getting his own final run-through nailed down. Yuuri saw Victor realize this and start to brush it aside, to give up his own practice, and he spoke quickly.  
  
“I can do it,” Yuuri said, quietly. “I mean. If you want? I could, ah, record the spin on my phone, too, if you want Victor’s feedback, ah…”  
  
“Sure, fine, whatever,” Yuri said, but he didn’t seem to have much fight in his words. Probably his energy was too focused on being worried about Yakov, Yuuri thought.  
  
After lunch, they all went back to their rooms. The kids — Yuuri couldn’t help thinking of them that way, even if they were certainly old enough that he’d never say it to their faces — now had Victor’s and Yuuri’s phone numbers, and they were all signed into a group chat through Line, which Victor had made them join to avoid international calling fees. When they walked into their own suite, Victor turned and pulled Yuuri right into his arms, almost sagging against him.  
  
“Are you all right?” Yuuri asked, stroking one hand down his back.  
  
“No,” Victor said, confirming what they both already knew. It was good that he was acknowledging it, at least.  
  
He sat on the bed and recounted everything that he had held back at lunch: how Yakov had looked so pale and terrible in the hospital, his skin slack and waxy, how the doctor had pulled him aside and told him in French that he should prepare “the other children” for the worst possibilities, that their early tests showed a heart so weakened that travel would not be possible until after surgery.  
  
“I’ve been thinking, should I stay here?” he asked, looking up with wide eyes. “After the competition, I mean.”  
  
“Don’t make any decisions now,” Yuuri said, cupping Victor’s face in his hands. “Not until we know more. Not until after the competition.”  
  
Victor smiled, a wistful, almost empty smile. “Sounds familiar,” he said, then kissed the inside of Yuuri’s wrist. He fell backwards on to their bed and briefly rested his fists over his eyes. “I don’t think I should have let Yura see him.”  
  
Yuuri snorted. He sat next to Victor, rubbing his knee absently. “Do you think you could have kept him away?”  
  
“Not without injury, probably,” Victor said. He sighed. “This isn’t exactly how I thought this week would go.”  
  
“No? You didn’t think there’d be tremendous emotional upheaval and chaos at your last GPF?”  
  
Victor smiled without opening his eyes. “Perhaps, but I had planned to be its cause, not its victim.”  
  
Victor had decided two months ago, at the very start of the season, that this would be his last year of competitive skating. He would continue through Worlds, and he’d held out the possibility of competing in Russian nationals the next year to qualify for his third Olympics, but the GPF qualifiers themselves had held little excitement or allure for him this time around.  
  
Then again, that entire plan had been built around the idea that Yakov could use his influence to get the Russian skating officials to invite Victor to nationals and maybe Rostelecom the next year, even if he didn’t compete otherwise. He would need that invitation to qualify for the Olympics.  
  
As though reading his mind, Victor said, “Clearly, I won’t announce anything about me at the press conference.”  
  
“Right,” Yuuri said. “What are you going to say?”  
  
Victor shrugged. “That he’s in the hospital, expected to recover but not able to be with us in more than spirit this week. That’s about it. His sister doesn’t want too many details leaked, but if I don’t say something, the rumors will be worse.” He finally opened his eyes, and his hand came up to snag Yuuri’s. “Do you want me to mention that you’re helping out, as well?”  
  
“Why would anyone care about that?” he said.  
  
Victor laughed and sat up. He tucked his chin over Yuuri’s shoulder. “Oh, my Yurasha. How would I ever get through this without you?”  
  
“Probably very well,” Yuuri said, “though maybe with a few more scratches from Yurio.”  
  
“There may be no way to avoid that fate, regardless.”  
  
Victor got up and changed into one of his coaching outfits after that, choosing the light gray Armani that he often wore when he knew he’d be on television. It made his hair shine and his eyes appear unnaturally bright. “All right. I will see you at the rink?”  
  
“Yes, coach,” Yuuri agreed, and kissed him before he left.  


* * *

  
By the time dinner rolled around, Yuuri was ready for the day — perhaps for the entire week — to be over.  
  
He’d spent the afternoon dodging between needs. Victor’s press conference had run longer than expected, and he was drawn into a meeting with the Russian skating federation afterwards. That meant Yuuri had to shepherd the junior skaters back to the arena, where it was time for the seniors to begin drawing their order and preparing for practice. The juniors, it turned out, had a few needs: Katya and Ilya wanted more advice on a throw in their free program, trailing him through the stadium with shaky video on their phones as evidence. Nathalie had broken a skate lace in the morning’s practice. Vadim, well, he never asked for anything, but he shadowed Yuuri during half of the afternoon, and Yuuri suspected he was one of those children who needed regular physical reassurance. That made him wish Victor was nearby, because he would have likely pulled the kid into a hug without thinking. Yuuri managed to pat his shoulder a few times, awkwardly.  
  
Then, as soon as they’d all settled into a bank of seats together, it was time for senior practice. Normally, this would have been a time for Yuuri to think only of himself, but today, Mila wanted his attention on her triple salchow. Then, when the men came up, Yuri needed help with his spins, and he asked Yuuri to keep an eye out as he worked through his three-jump combo. By the time Victor showed up, Yuuri had spent half of his own practice time demonstrating spin technique for Yuri, as though they didn’t share a rink for most of the year. He didn’t run a single jump. Victor never even got his skates on, choosing not to participate in public practice at all.  
  
Normally, this all would have worried him. His anxiety would have fed off of this lack of preparation, and he would have been practically vibrating with fear by the time he returned to the hotel. However, two things worked in his favor that evening. First, he was so tired after multitasking all day that his brain didn’t have the energy to stir up a protest, and second, he was still going to get some ice time to himself that evening, long after everyone else had gone to bed, thanks to their late-night reservation at the local rink.  
  
So when he showed up in the lobby with six hungry Russians lined up behind him like red-and-white ducklings, Yuuri was able to grin back at Phichit. “No drinking,” he said, hugging Phichit.  
  
“Aw, you’re such a dad,” Phichit said, laughing. “Chris is going to meet us there. Are you all OK to walk?”  
  
“They hate coats,” Yuuri said, shrugging, and he and Phichit linked arms to walk out into the brisk French night.  
  
Phichit had chosen a restaurant that specialized in some kind of Mediterranean fusion cuisine, which was annoyingly non-descriptive. It turned out that they had attempted to fuse it with every other world cuisine, a dicey prospect. This was why Yuuri usually let Victor pick their restaurants, since he tended to like traditional food in trendy places, not trendy food itself. That night, though, Yuuri just let Phichit and Christophe manage most of the ordering after they had polled the Russian contingent for dislikes. They ate family style from strangely compelling platters full of well-spiced vegetables and grilled meats. The younger skaters nibbled on flat breads and small servings of noodles and indulged in the creamy sauces available, while Yuuri and Christophe, in particular, stuck to lean options.  
  
“Isn’t it so terrible, being old,” Christophe said, frowning over his plate of vegetables, and Yuuri laughed.  
  
It was charming, actually, to see how the younger Russians were taken with Christophe and Phichit. Christophe, of course, had been competing for longer even than Yuuri, and they would have seen him at Europeans over the years. He probably did feel like a genuine star. Phichit was younger and probably cooler to a group of teenagers who loved their phones almost as much as their skates. He immediately made sure they were all friends across their various networks, and wouldn’t let anyone leave until they’d posted a selfie apiece.  
  
For the first time that day, Yuuri was able to relax, letting his friends carry most of the conversation.  
  
“Where’s Victor?” Phichit asked, quietly, when it was time to walk back. Christophe was ahead of them, regaling the teens with a story of a wild (but not X-rated, at least) weekend he and Victor had spent in France in their early twenties.  
  
“Meeting Yakov’s sister," he said, and Phichit gave a sympathetic groan. “It will be good to have someone from his family here.”  
  
“And how are you holding up?”  
  
“Me?”  
  
He nodded. “You adopted six kids overnight, and I’m still waiting on my wedding invite.”  
  
“Phichit-kun,” Yuuri said, sighing, and Phichit put an arm around his waist.  
  
“I just meant with… all of this. I know he’s not your coach, but he’s Victor’s coach, and I know they’re close, in some weird sort of masochistic Russian way.”  
  
That wasn’t entirely inaccurate, so Yuuri just nodded. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ve barely had any time together since last night. I’m not sure how he’s holding up, really. He, ah,” Yuuri paused, holding Phichit back until he was sure the others were out of earshot. “He saw him stop breathing, I think, watched them trying to revive him.”  
  
“Oh, no,” Phichit said, one hand over his mouth. “Oh, no. Poor Victor.”  
  
Yuuri nodded. “He took Yuri and Mila to the hospital this morning, and they both came back looking haunted. It — it doesn’t look good. I don’t know if the others really understand that yet.”  
  
Phichit snuggled his head into Yuuri’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Ugh, this is awful.”  
  
Yuuri agreed. “I think, at least, they’re all so professional, just having the skating to do has been the best thing.”  
  
“Well, at least there’s plenty of that to go around.”  
  
At the hotel, Christophe peeled off to go check on his jet-lagged partner. Phichit had found that both Vadim and Katya had brought a DS along, and the three of them went back to Yuri’s room to play for a while. Nathalie said she’d call her parents from her adjoining room and then join them, and Ilya and Mila decided to take a longer walk. With everyone tucked in, Yuuri went back to his room to wait for Victor.  
  
**Victor** : _Do you mind if we meet at the rink?_  
**Yuuri** : _That’s fine. When?_  
**Victor** : _I’ll be on my way in 10, so… any time after that._  
  
Yuuri changed into practice clothes and stuffed his skates into his bag. He wasn’t surprised to see that Victor had taken his bag with him. Yuuri had met some skaters who wouldn’t travel without their bag in arm’s reach during a competition like this. By World’s, Yuuri might be nervous enough to be among them.  
  
He asked for the concierge’s help in calling a cab to the right location, then found himself outside of a small, worn rink about 20 minutes later. Victor was nowhere to be seen, but bluish light poured through the front windows. As he approached, a woman pushed open one of the heavy glass doors. “Msr. Katsuki?” she asked with a heavy French accent.  
  
“Yes. Oui,” he said.  
  
She nodded. “He waits for you. Inside. Door will lock, OK?”  
  
Yuuri nodded, surprised. The woman was already halfway down the stairs by the time he stepped into the small lobby. It made Yuuri wonder what Victor had paid for the reservation, if they really had the place so entirely to themselves.  
  
The rink wasn’t visible from the front lobby, but Yuuri could hear the scrape of skates. He walked around the corner, past a wall of hasty cinderblock, and into the open space of the rink. It was small, smaller even than Ice Castle, though the low boards made it seem more spacious. This was clearly a hobby rink, built to allow children to easily see parents or for junior hockey players to jump in with no wait. Still, small though it was, Victor cut across the ice as though it was perfection. As Yuuri stopped to stare, he spun into a quad-triple toe-loop combo, aggressively fast, then whirled into a flying sit spin that nearly made the ice shake with the force of his impact. A turn later, he executed a triple axel so high that Yuuri again wondered if the quad wouldn’t be part of his routine someday. He spread his arms out, turning to where the judges would sit, and then stumbled when he saw Yuuri.  
  
“Ah, hello,” he said, grinning, recovering quickly. Sweat glistened at his temples. “I didn’t see you come in.”  
  
“You were busy,” Yuuri said. “Keep going. I need to stretch, anyway.”  
  
Their time that night was exactly what Yuuri needed on a few accounts. First, his program run-through went fine. Better than fine, actually. By the end of it, they were both happy with the upgrades they’d brought in over the past few weeks, and Yuuri felt a cooling calm begin to overtake him as he did his post-exercise stretches.  
  
Second, he had the sense that Victor’s own time on the ice had allowed him some needed reprieve from the demands of the day. He wasn’t relaxed as they practice, but he was decently focused, and that was more than Yuuri had expected.  
  
Finally, the session gave them a chance to be alone. There was a difference between being alone in the middle of the day and being alone at the end of a busy day, when exhaustion made them both more prone to seek out intimacy in word and deed. So they sat quietly on the ride back to the hotel, hands tightly clasped, and Yuuri didn’t have to ask how Victor’s day had gone. He knew he would hear the story once they were at the hotel, and he let Victor slump against him, inhaling sweat and ice dampness. It would be OK.  
  
In their room, he let Victor take the first shower, folded up clean pajamas and a hotel robe for him, and waited his turn. After Yuuri’s own shower, he dried his hair as much as he could, then lay his still-damp head on the breast of Victor’s robe. “How was Yakov’s sister?”  
  
“She wants to take him home to Russia. To Yekaterinburg, as soon as possible.” The story spilled out slowly. Irina was a teacher who had married a successful doctor. They had a sizable property just outside of town, with bedrooms to spare. Yakov would be comfortable there while he recovered, she’d told Victor. They had two beds on the first story alone, after all! Yakov wouldn’t need to climb stairs or, really, to lift a finger as he recovered.  
  
“Oh, he’ll hate that," Yuuri said.  
  
Victor nodded. “Very much. But — it’s a sensible offer. By the time he’s strong enough to protest that kind of smothering, he won’t need it anymore.”  
  
Yuuri understood what Victor wasn’t saying: that there was no one in St. Petersburg who could provide the same kind of care. Victor lived in a one-bedroom flat; the rest of his students all doubled up in rentals or in the dorm-like units the skating federation had set aside for minors. Lilia was not an option, no matter how thawed things had become between them. Family was the obvious choice.  
  
“Will he be able to go home soon?” Yuuri asked.  
  
Victor shrugged. “There’s not enough change today to say for sure when, but after surgery, if it’s successful, then he can leave the hospital.” He sighed, and his fingers combed through Yuuri’s wet hair. “At least he woke up a little today.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I wasn’t there, but the doctor says it’s a good sign. We’ll know more over the next few days.” He sighed again. “Just tell me about skating, would you? Tell me something that’s not — this.”  
  
So Yuuri did. He told Victor about Katya and Ilya’s program, about Yuri being too quick in his combo and changing the double loop to a single. He mentioned the promise inherent in Mila’s over-rotated triple lutz and the contrast between Vadim’s assured skating and his clingy persona. As he talked, he felt Victor relaxing by degrees, until it was time for Yuuri to turn out the lights and settle next to him. Though he traditionally struggled with sleep the night before a competition, that night, his brain replayed highlights from the juniors’ practice, and trying to retrace their choreography put him right into a deep, restful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned earlier, maybe, that each chapter here represents one day at the Grand Prix (later chapters might have to divide up one day over two). The schedules for practice are taken straight from the 2016 GPF in Marseille. Something I learned: junior men's skaters had their practice at insanely early times, like 7:30! 
> 
> Also -- I've read and read on skating terms, moves, judging, etc., but I'm clearly no expert. If you see things that look wrong, please let me know, or point me toward more to read, of course.


	3. Thursday, Dec. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of competition at the Grand Prix has arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned that, for this one, I have one chapter per day planned for the span of the Grand Prix. Here's the first day of competitions for most skaters (Senior Ladies start a day late).

The next day was one of the strangest Yuuri had ever experienced at a competition.  
  
The Grand Prix always had a set shuffle of events. After the morning draw for order and the early public practice sessions, Yuuri usually spent his day away from the venue. In fact, competitors were discouraged from being near the locker rooms until their own events and groups were approaching. Today, though, the juniors would be starting their Grand Prix experience even before the opening ceremony, which meant that instead of waiting for a 4:30 call for a 5:00 warm-up, Yuuri would have to join Katya and Ilya rinkside by 1. Victor would follow at 1:30 with Nathalie and Vadim, who would skate their events just after. Mila was the only one from the group who wouldn’t perform until the next day, which meant that she was in charge of collecting everyone into a clump in the stands once their performances were wrapped.  
  
So after another scattered (and horribly early) practice session, Yuuri returned to the hotel. Victor had skipped the practice to make a quick visit to the hospital, but he joined them all for a light lunch in the cafe. Yakov was resting comfortably, he reported, which seemed to put most of the team at ease.  
  
Afterwards, everyone returned to their rooms to dress. Yuuri wasn’t looking forward to hanging out at the event center for so long, particularly in his costume, which was beautiful but not at all warm. He slid a pair of Mizuno track pants over it, then reached for his comfortably familiar Japan jacket. Victor, who was wearing his coaching suit, stopped him.  
  
“If you’re going to stand in with Katya and Ilya, wear this,” he said, and handed over his Team Russia jacket as though it was just a simple swap of clothing.  
  
Yuuri stared at it for a moment too long, perhaps, because Victor sighed and draped it over his shoulders. “It’s the finals,” he said. “Even Yakov wears the team jacket for his skaters.”  
  
“You don’t,” Yuuri murmured.  
  
Victor raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never been offered one from Japan, have I? Come, we’ll take your jacket, too, and you can wear it the rest of the day.”  
  
This was how he wound up, later, splashed across the nightly news summaries with his arms around the first-place finishers in the junior pair skate short program, all of them in matching jackets, all of them with matching, quiet smiles.  
  
He shifted into his own jacket for the remainder of the event, sitting in the stands with Mila and Katya and Ilya to watch first Vadim, then Nathalie in their singles routines. They were both good — not that Yuuri had expected any less from Yakov’s JGPF qualifiers — though their inexperience was obvious in their routines. Yuuri couldn’t say exactly how, but there was something about the way they approached their jumps — too fast, with an aggression that matched Yuri’s but without any of the tempering grace — that made him wince, slightly. Vadim was short with a long torso, which made his leg extensions that much more critical. He would probably benefit from more ballet cross-training, Yuuri thought, then chided himself. Of course he’d think that; he’d benefitted from it so much that he thought everyone could.  
  
Victor looked like a proper coach down at rinkside, taking their skate guards and murmuring last-minute advice. He guided them both to the Kiss-and-Cry with a protective arm, passing the cameras with his shoulders raised to block too many invasive shots. Yuuri could guess from the way both skaters nodded, their faces serious, that he was offering a kind of Yakovian criticism as they awaited their scores, but that was to be expected. Yuuri was just glad it wasn’t him down there: he’d only been able to say, “You were great! That was amazing!” when Katya and Ilya had left the ice.  
  
Vadim was in fourth by the end of his session, and Nathalie was third, higher than she’d expected. “Her free is not as strong,” Victor said when they walked toward the locker room after, finally cleared to get ready for their own events. “She doesn’t have much stamina.”  
  
Yuuri pulled off his track pants and folded them into a locker, then took a few minutes to touch up his hair and makeup. Behind him, Victor was getting into his own costume. He’d chosen an all-black outfit: a fitted top, with transparent sleeves and a see-through stripe across his shoulders, the see-through cloth cutting just above his pectorals. His pants, also jet black and tailored to look like well-fit trousers, had a glittering stripe of black sequins where a tuxedo stripe would be. The shimmer in both was subtle until he turned, but in a quad, Victor looked like glitter made into human form. Yuuri stared at the curve of his shoulders under the thin material, watching Victor’s muscles shift as he pulled on his gloves, and didn’t quite manage to hold back his sigh of admiration.  
  
Victor glanced over and winked. “Isn’t the fun supposed to be in taking the costume off?”  
  
“Seriously not helping,” Yuuri said, and Victor laughed. “Are you standing in with Yurio, too?”  
  
Victor frowned. “He’s third, and I drew second. I don’t think I can, quite. And then you’re right after…” He sighed. This was the first event since World’s last year where they were both competing at the same time. At World’s, Victor had kept the whole show waiting while he’d sat with Yuuri in the Kiss-and-Cry, waiting to hear his scores before leaping dramatically on to the ice for his own free skate. While Yuuri knew he loved the drama of that gesture, today wasn’t the day to have a replay.  
  
“It’s fine,” Yuuri said. “I can hold Yurio’s guards and then hand mine off to him until you can come to the side.” Or, he thought, if Yuri wouldn’t even deign to do that much, he could probably ask Phichit to help him out. He would miss Victor’s last-minute encouragement, but he knew Victor would watch every second of his performance, wherever he was standing.  
   
They walked out to the group warm-up together, and Yuuri held Victor’s hand for a moment before he pushed off onto the ice. Without a coach keeping watch, the small practice window felt less like a rehearsal and more like what it was supposed to be: a warm-up. It was also a time when he could share the ice with Victor in a way that had, for so long, been just a dream. Now, he watched Victor raise both hands in acknowledgement of the crowd, then slide into a spread eagle with his hands over his heart, a showman down to his marrow. He laughed and skated to the other end of the rink, waving when he heard his name called, and then sunk into a sit spin to get himself centered.  
  
“Hey,” Yuri called as he rose. “You gonna let him hog the spotlight like that?”  
  
Yuuri glanced over to where Victor was, watched him land a graceful, downgraded triple toe loop-triple flip combination. He looked over at Yuri. “What did you have in mind?”  
  
This is how, at the start of what should have been the most nerve-wracking competition Yuuri had faced so far that year, he wound up in a game of Skating Horse during the group warm-up with Yuri Plisetsky.  
  
They had created Skating Horse after Yuuri had tried to explain the American basketball version one day. The oneupmanship had appealed to nearly every member of the Russian team, and so they had developed a few rules. Everyone had to start from the same position, and center ice was the demonstration point. Any jumps or spins were fine, but not combinations. Step sequences were out. Victor, when he participated, was not allowed to only do quad flips over and over. Yuri was allowed to do the ’Tano version of his jumps only if he started it, but he couldn’t add an arm up when copying someone else. Though it was best (and often garnered cheers) to mimic the opening move of the person who set up the jump, you could also change it up with no penalty. Any falls, under- or over-rotations, or stumbles gave you a letter, and the first one to reach HORSE lost.  
  
So, now, Yuri started. He skated from the center of the left side of the rink, picking up just enough speed to do a quad toe at center ice. Yuuri didn’t plan to do one of those that day, but it was his back-up plan for the combination and it didn’t hurt to warm up with it. He didn’t usually try a ‘Tano variation, but he felt limber enough today, thought his balance would be fine, and honestly, putting Yuri in his place was generally all the encouragement he needed. So he looked around to make sure his path was clear, then whipped around from the left side and did a clean quad toe with an arm extended above his head, cutting a deep landing and then whirling into a half-turn to start a step sequence, as he would in his routine.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Yuri said, rubbing his gloved hands together. “What next?”  
  
“Hmm,” Yuuri said, and looked around. Victor was running through the second half of his choreographic sequence at one end; Phichit and Chris were both chatting with their coaches. JJ had most of the right side of the rink occupied doing a run through of his program, but the center remained clear. Yuuri knew exactly what he wanted to work on, anyway. It had been an itch in the back of his mind since helping Katya and Ilya the day before.  
  
He curved around the left side of the rink, building speed, giving Victor a good two meters of space as he went by. The arm motions came without thinking, his hands reaching up and pulling down as he would later in his short program. Then he did a half-turn into a spread eagle, up into the triple axel on his outside edge, landed on the inside, and went back into a spread eagle, soaring past Yuri and clapping his hands once as he passed him by.  
  
“Ugh, whatever,” Yuri said. He executed the jump perfectly, but without the same entry, making up for it by doing a full circle around Yuuri in his final spread eagle.  
  
As he moved into his next piece, Chris slid up next to Yuuri. They watched Yuri complete a devastating flying sit spin at center ice, and Yuuri sighed. “At least it wasn’t a Bielmann,” he said, and Christophe laughed.  
  
“Can I play along?”  
  
Yuuri nodded, waving Christophe ahead of him, and Christophe followed Yuri out and into his own flying sit spin. He traveled just slightly, but he added a flourish at the end that (of course) involved him dragging his hands over his entire body. Yuuri followed, trying the same spin, then pulling up out of it into a layback Ina Bauer as he glided back over to his friends. “Chris, you’re up. Any jump or spin but no combos.”  
  
“Any jump, eh?” He rubbed his hands together and then did a quad Lutz that made both Yuris groan. The Lutz was basically Christophe’s signature move at this point, and his height and distance were both phenomenal. This was also his last GPF, Yuuri knew, having been informally informed through Victor. It seemed right that he would go out with such style.  
  
Yuri belted across the ice and into the Lutz, but he over-rotated and spilled out onto the ice. The fall was so brief that it barely counted; Yuri’s grumble of, “Fine,” had been louder than his impact. As he got up, the announcer reminded them all that only one minute remained in the warm up.  
  
Yuuri had a quad Lutz planned in combination. He glanced sideways: Victor’s attention was still absorbed in his own footwork. If he didn’t notice this, Yuuri wouldn’t get in trouble for warming up with it. He did a quick half-round to get up speed, then centered his combination over the middle of the ice. His Lutz hadn’t been possible until he’d learned the quad flip: the setup was identical until a second before he tapped his toe down, but having done the flip successfully, he could feel the difference. Now he leaned hard into the outside edge on his left foot just before tapping, spiraling up suddenly, the speed sharper, harder to control. The landing was jarring but solid, painful in exactly the right way, and he tapped his left foot again a second later, springing up into the triple toeloop. And that was it. That was really, absolutely, it.  
  
“You suck,” Yuri said as he skated back over. His voice was low only because even Yuri knew better than to name-call in front of the cameras. “That wasn’t the jump. You get an H.”  
  
“Ah,” Yuuri said, not caring in the least. He could see Victor watching from across the ice, shaking his head. “I think you win, then,” Yuuri said, offering Christophe a small bow.  
  
He laughed and held up both hands in a victory pose, and Yuuri was briefly startled by the cheers behind them. The announcer called a one-minute warning, and they all started to shuffle to the exit.  
  
“That was quite a show,” Victor said, one hand resting lightly on Yuuri’s waist as they skated to the exit. “Quad lutz in the combo, hm?”  
  
Yuuri nodded. “It looks OK, doesn’t it?”  
  
Victor’s eyes narrowed, and then he grinned broadly. “You’re putting it in! Ah, sneaky Yuuri, how will I ever beat you now?”  
  
“Same way you always have,” he said, accepting the skate guards that Mila handed over. “Quickly and beautifully.”

* * *

  
That didn’t turn out to be quite true.  
  
Yuuri spent his warm-up time backstage with Victor, watching most of Christophe’s and Phichit’s performances on the television set up for viewing. Victor stretched next to him, shaking his head when Phichit did a beautiful triple lutz-triple toeloop combo. Victor felt that Celestino was squandering Phichit’s natural energy by keeping him at a single quad again.  
  
“He does it so well, though,” Yuuri said. “And the combination was beautiful.”  
  
“Beautiful enough to make the GPF this year,” Victor said, “but with Otabek back next year and the juniors who are rising, he’ll need more than one. It’s ridiculous that Celestino won’t train him for it.”  
  
Yuuri shrugged. They’d had this conversation many times before, and Victor knew he agreed, to an extent. Celestino did not believe in engaging in the quad arms race just for the sake of landing more high-point jumps. He had nothing against adding a quad when it made sense, both for the program and for the skater, but his bars for that were higher than Yakov’s and certainly higher than Victor’s. Yuuri still considered himself an inconsistent jumper at best, but he now held the world records for free skate, combined score, and for most quad jumps completed in a single performance in competition; he would have never tried another quad, let alone learning four different kinds, under Celestino.  
  
Yuri approached, then, having completed his own set of warm-ups down the hall. He scowled at both of them, then rolled his eyes at the screen where J.J. was circling with his arms raised to rake in welcoming praise.  
  
“I’m not going out until the last minute,” he said.  
  
“Wise,” Victor said, nodding. He started to say something else, but then Phichit and Celestino walked back in.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
He seemed pleased but maybe a little resigned; his score had put him ten points behind Christophe — in second place for the moment, but only out of two. The rest of them would have to have major falls to put Phichit in the top three for the short.  
  
“You were so great,” Yuuri said, hugging Phichit.  
  
“Clean skate!” he said, grinning. “So are you doing that combo?”  
  
“Er, we’ll see, I guess,” Yuuri said, and Phichit laughed and pulled bak.  
  
“You bet we will. Are your Russian children cheering you on?”  
  
“If they don’t want to be sent to bed without food, they’d better,” Yuuri muttered, and Phichit laughed.  
  
Next to them, Victor and Celestino chatted in the strange, awkward way they always did. This year, it seemed like neither one of them knew how to talk to the other. Were they fellow coaches? Rival coaches? A skater and coach? A fiancé and a former mentor?  
  
“— after that, was about five hours,” Celestino was saying, “not bad.”  
  
Travel details, Yuuri thought, and shook his head. He saw Phichit smirk and roll his eyes as he scrolled through his phone.  
  
“Which one of you is my stupid guard holder?” Yuri asked, appearing at Yuuri’s elbow.  
  
“Ah,” Yuuri said, and Victor suddenly put an arm through his.  
  
“Good talking with you,” he said, voice slightly too flat. “Let’s go, Yuris.”  
  
Yuuri was sure he heard Phichit laugh as they walked through the curtains toward the rink.  
  
They were both on hand to see Yuri off, though he did nothing more than handing over his skate guards before rocketing out to center ice. His music was moody and fast, plenty of cymbals and one blasting horn, and it covered even the most dedicated screams from Yuri’s Angels.  
  
Within a minute of starting, though, Yuri’s fall on the quad Lutz seemed like foreshadowing. He fell on it, again, in the opening jump of his routine, and then stumbled at the end of his quad toe-triple toeloop combination. Unlike Yuuri, who had fought his way through so many falls in performance that getting up and getting on was now automatic, falls in competition always seemed to catch Yuri so completely by surprise that they sapped his energy. Yuuri could evaluate on the fly whether his fall had cost him too dearly. Yuri, unfortunately, hunkered down into what Yuuri thought of as his grind-through-it mode, skating technically but stiffly, so much so that Yuuri briefly worried he’d been injured.  
  
“Hey, that was good,” he said, handing Yuri his skate guards when he came to the edge of the rink.  
  
Yuri blinked. “What?”  
  
Yuuri put a hand on his shoulder to steady him as he tried to put on the guards and keep hold of the cat plush in his arms. “I was saying you did well.”  
  
Yuri’s eyes narrowed. His words came out in an angry rush of gasps. “Are you losing your sight or something? Did you take off your glasses?”  
  
Yuuri rolled his eyes. “Davai. To the Kiss-and-Cry, come on. You can tell me all about how life-endingly embarrassed you are by a single fall in the middle of a world-record-level program while we wait on your scores.”  
  
A smile threatened on Yuri’s face. “Was that your Yakov impression? It needs some work.”  
  
“You can teach me Russian curses, then, since Victor refuses to do it.”  
  
While Yuri stalked off, Yuuri turned back to Victor, collecting his guards as he took to the ice.  
  
“See you in a few minutes,” Victor said, winking.  
  
Yuuri clasped his forearm. “I’ll watch the whole time.”  
  
Victor drew back, then blew him a kiss, which made the crowd nearby erupt in cheers and giggles. Yuuri shook his head and walked after Yuri toward the Kiss and Cry, listening to the crowd begin to cheer Victor’s appearance behind him.  
  
Yuri’s scores were solid and put him in second, just behind Christophe, for the evening so far. That wasn’t where he wanted to be, of course, but he didn’t start shouting or crying, at least. Instead, he just curled his arms around the plushie and drew his knees up into the squat leather chair, becoming a glittering lump of sullen teenager. Yuuri stood, needing to stretch for another minute or two while Victor performed. “Are you coming?”  
  
“Nah,” Yuri said, staring out at the ice. “Someone should curse him out when he gets done.”  
  
Yuuri nodded, tamped down a brief urge to bow, then turned to prepare.  
  
In truth, he was as ready as he was going to get. He’d stretched right alongside Victor and was feeling pretty good after the round of Skating Horse. His nerves weren’t quiet, but they felt manageable at the moment — which he tried not to worry about, lest he give himself an anxiety attack from feeling anxious about not having enough anxiety at the moment.  
  
The last six months had been a little better in the anxiety department. Upon moving to St. Petersburg, Yuuri had been introduced to the phalanx of professionals who kept Yakov’s students in top condition. They had included a nutritionist, two athletic trainers, a handful of recommended medics, and a sports psychologist who offered online weekly sessions or monthly in-person meetings. Victor had mentioned this off-handedly: “Oh, yes, Yeva Alexeyevna, she’s very good.” And then somehow, Yuuri had wound up in therapy for the second time in his adult life, but this time, with the full and open support of his partner. Half the rink had seen Yeva; Yakov liked to make everyone talk to her when puberty started, at the very least.  
  
Somehow, just that easy acceptance, that idea that this was just something that elite athletes did, that caring for mental health was of the same importance as watching your diet or doing leg day at the gym, made something resentful and aching uncurl in Yuuri’s chest. He’d spent a month full of online sessions basically weeping over his keyboard about the shame he’d felt over his anxiety, and then, as though his palate had been cleansed, he’d been able to actually use some of the strategies Yeva recommended to make its manifestations less disastrous. It wasn’t a cure. He would never be without anxiety. But it had helped.  
  
So now, here he was, standing at the edge of a rink and watching Victor perform, and his stomach wasn’t exactly in knots, and his breathing was pretty even, and he was allowing himself to think that, maybe, it was OK to admit that he liked being here. That he perhaps had worked hard enough to be here. That he deserved at least this, this moment of watching Victor gracefully skate his beautiful routine.  
  
Victor’s theme for the year was Forever. There had been all kinds of speculation about the meaning. Romantics assumed it referred to Yuuri and the rings and their impending nuptials. Cynics thought it was a statement of how long he intended to keep skating. Yuuri had watched these programs from incubation to their present perfect polished form, and he knew that both camps were a bit right. Victor was skating his heart out, all of the love he felt and had received through skating, through the last year. He did want to stay forever, but in acknowledging that, he was also acknowledging the impossibility. They’d had a scare last summer with his hip, which hadn’t needed surgery yet but might, at some point in the future. As much as he might have wanted it, as much as his fans seemed to want it, Victor knew, now, that this couldn’t go on forever.  
  
That day, he skated with a bit more sadness than usual. Of course, he would be thinking of Yakov, Yuuri thought, watching Victor sweep into his opening quad flip. The height was gorgeous, and he went straight into his footwork, weaving in and out of a long S across the ice. He’d asked for special compositions again this season. Sweet, childish strings started his short program, an homage to his early senior division wins and themes of youth, beauty, and renewal. Usually, his long glides and outstretched hands seemed graceful and delicate; today they held a weight of yearning, almost nostalgia.  
  
His quad loop-triple toe combination happened right out of his footwork, at the opposite end of the rink, and Yuuri clutched the boards. He’d listened to Yakov rail against this combination for the entire fall so far and watched Victor fight, and fight for, the combination just as vehemently. Watching someone else — someone so much younger — ratify the quad loop in competition the year before had been bracing for Victor, Yuuri knew now. He’d ratified the flip, after all, and made it his signature; if Christophe hadn’t drawn first skate at Europeans three years ago, Victor would have ratified the quad Lutz, too (and Yuuri still felt he should get credit for it, since his had been the only one cleanly landed).  
  
He’d insisted on putting the loop into his program, and it wasn’t enough to have it: he wanted it in combination. Loops were difficult because they were edge-only jumps, without the jolt of a toe-pick to launch the skater into the air. Done well, they were gravity-defying twirls of strength; done poorly, they sagged and were easily under-rotated. Yakov hated the loop because of this: If Victor didn’t complete it, he’d likely miss his combination, too, or at least make a mess of it. Missing the second jump altogether would give him a zero even if he had all the rotations for the loop because the combination was a required element. Simply messing it up would be a significant deduction.  
  
Today, Yuuri stood in the place where Yakov normally would have, and watched Victor sail up — but not high enough. He stumbled on the landing, stepping out of it, forward but still upright. The energy he used to stay that way sapped his combination. He fought through for a double toe-loop that nearly crashed him to the ice — his hand brushed the surface, but he was up in an instant, turning the wobble into a flourish. As he flew into his spins, Yuuri barely managed not to close his eyes. His grade of execution would be low; he might even get a deduction.  
  
The music slid into a silent moment, and Victor paused at center ice, hands raised, for only a moment: the rest of the program was his legacy lap, the representation of what he wanted to be remembered for. The new melody picked up, lively, bailalaka and accordion, sweetly Russian and delightfully fast. The audience began to clap before they even knew it, and Victor danced his way over the ice. His skates might as well have been dance shoes, as he hopped and twirled, his hands reaching out to draw the audience in, his smile broad. His triple axel had tremendous height, and he sunk immediately into a complex combination spin.  
  
And then it was over, Yuuri thought, though he didn’t take his eyes off of him. The final choreography was just as joyous as the rest, but there were no more jumps, no more danger. It hadn’t been a perfect skate, but he hadn’t fallen. Yuuri hadn’t even realized how worried he’d been until that moment, watching Victor — sleepless, overburdened Victor — finish his program safely.  
  
As he skated back to the entrance, his head was tilted down, his eyes not searching the sidelines as they often did. Had he ever skated a serious competition without Yakov waiting at the sidelines? Fame was ephemeral; skating was temporary; but Yakov, well, Yuuri didn’t doubt that Victor had always thought Yakov would be forever.  
  
The audience behind them cheered as Victor stopped at the barrier by the exit. He turned and waved up at them, his grin broad and photogenic. Yuuri held out his skate guards, and as Victor took them, he shook his head, once, mouth twisting into a wry but honest smile.  
  
“Well,” he said, and then snapped the guards on.  
  
“Beautiful,” Yuuri said. Victor stepped on to the regular floor, and Yuuri turned and cupped Victor’s cheek. “You always amaze me.”  
  
Victor turned and kissed the inside of Yuuri’s wrist, briefly resting his hand over Yuuri’s. Behind them, the audience cheered again, and Yuuri laughed and ducked, not moving his hand from Victor’s.  
  
“Ganba,” Victor whispered, his mouth suddenly close to Yuuri’s ear. “I’ll be watching only you the whole time.”  
  
Yuuri nodded. Victor turned Yuuri’s hand palm-side in and kissed Yuuri’s ring, then released him. Yuuri handed off his skate guards, then slid onto the ice while Victor went to find his scores (and a surprise Yuri Plisetsky) in the Kiss-and-Cry. Yuuri felt a wash of affection for Yuri, since going to sit in the Kiss-and-Cry alone would have been worse for Victor than returning to the sidelines without Yakov. He hoped Yuri really did dig in on the cursing and criticism, too. It would certainly make Victor feel at home.  
  
They announced Victor’s score as Yuuri was halfway around the rink in a warm-up circle, and he looked up and smiled. Despite the error, Victor was in second place, now, behind Christophe, knocking Yuri to third. His score was impressive, probably reflecting his best-in-the-world interpretation. A relief, if Yuuri was honest: Victor’s score was high enough that Yuuri felt less pressure, certain that only Victor could win the gold. Yuuri could just skate his best. The announcer called Yuuri’s name, then, and he waved in acknowledgement and heard Victor and Yuri shout, “Davai!” in unison. Maybe, actually, with that volume, it could’ve been the whole Russian team. It was strangely comforting.  
  
Yuuri had never choreographed his own programs. He’d always felt more secure following a model, whether it was Celestino writing it down or Yuuko playing him old tapes of Victor. His skating career, after all, had basically started as an elaborate attempt at imitation — first of Yuuko and Nishigori, then of Victor. This year, though, there were no good models for what he’d wanted to do. While Victor had been working through a little physical therapy on his hip over the summer, Yuuri had sketched out a few ideas that he wanted to try: the flip at the end, again, along with the triple axel, and a combination at the start.  
  
It was Victor who had suggested a quad Lutz-triple toeloop at the start. “It’s bold,” he’d said. “Even Christophe probably won’t put the Lutz in combination.” The score would be impressive, if Yuuri could land it it, and that was a big if: he’d only added the quad Lutz to his arsenal late last spring, in the run up to Worlds, and it was the jump he felt least confident about. Starting his program with it was bold for several reasons.  
  
In fact, he’d switched it out for a quad toe-triple toe at NHK, which had cost him 3 points but also, as he’d pointed out to Victor afterward, had saved him the inevitable deduction that would have come from eating ice on his first jump.  
  
But this was the finale. It wasn’t the peak of the season, but it was close enough. Yuuri wanted the gold. So the quad Lutz combination was in; the flip would go at the end. He’d save the triple axel for the score bonus, too. He wanted this.  
  
The music started, and then, so did he.

* * *

  
Riding home on the shuttle bus that night, Yuuri was surprised at the quiet among the Russian team. Vadim, Katya, and Ilya had opted to stay for the rest of the competitions (Nathalie had gone to dinner with her parents), but they didn’t immediately break into commentary about the performances on the way home. Maybe they were used to Yakov’s brand of post-competition small talk, which consisted of cataloguing faults and planning the next day’s practices to alleviate them.  
  
Instead, they shuttled back to the hotel in near silence, everyone staring at their phones or, in Victor’s case, watching the few city blocks slide past outside. Yuuri hadn’t been able to get a straight answer about whether they’d all had dinner or not, so he’d called ahead to the hotel and requested delivery of a small feast to his and Victor’s suite. In the lobby, everyone broke off to shower and lock up their skates, and Yuuri extracted a promise to join for food and a rundown of tomorrow’s schedule before they left. Victor, who looked as exhausted as Yuuri felt, just looped an arm around him and said, “What about me, General? Do you also have orders for me?”  
  
“If I’m the general, then what are you? The prime minister, maybe?”  
  
“Mm, I like King,” Victor admitted.  
  
Yuri snorted. “Pretty sure you’ve been officially dethroned after tonight, your highness.”  
  
Victor shook his head. “There’s still the free program, you know. Plus this wasn’t my crown to take, was it, Yurio?”  
  
“Like you said,” he muttered, jabbing the elevator up button, “there’s still the free.”  
  
Yuuri decided to stay out of this one. The final standings had him in first, with a new personal best at 111.46, topping Chris’s 105.74 by a frankly unimaginable six points. Victor was third with 103.76, an impressive score that reflected his gorgeous interpretation. Yuri Plisetsky had scored just under a hundred, and Phichit (98.76) and JJ (97.86) were still close, too. It was still anyone’s podium, words Yuuri had repeated dutifully at the post-program press conference. Both his therapist and his partner-coach had been clear that his tendency to publicly declare victory seemed to come back to bite him so often that trying a new media tactic — more in line with his actual personality — might be beneficial. This time, he’d focused his energies on bragging about his rinkmates, particularly Katya and Ilya, expressing total confidence in their ability to skate a solid program the next day.  
  
He’d brushed off the one question about Victor’s performance from a journalist who’d called it “disappointing” in a matter-of-fact tone. “I could never be disappointed in anything Victor does, but I found tonight’s skate particularly beautiful. I continue to take inspiration from his expression and his energy, and he’s the only skater in the world who would even attempt a quad loop combination. That’s something to be celebrated.”  
  
Victor’s own comments had been along the same lines. “I tried something new,” he said, with a casual shrug. “It didn’t work this time, but there’s still half a season to go.”  
  
His nonchalance was studied, too perfect, but Yuuri also didn’t doubt it. Victor hadn’t been in first after the short at either of the competitions he’d won this year. It was still anyone’s program.  
  
“Otabek should be here," Yuri grumbled as they climbed into the elevator.  
  
“I don’t disagree,” Victor said, rubbing a hand over his forehead.  
  
They’d all been unpleasantly surprised when a late injury had led to Otabek dropping out of the Grand Prix after winning gold at Rostelecom. JJ was not the competitor that any of them had cheered on. “Did he decide not to come as a visitor?”  
  
“He’s coming to St. Petersburg for a week or so around New Year’s,” Yuri said, shrugging.  
  
“When are his Nationals?”  
  
“They don’t really have one this year,” he said, shaking his head. “Not enough competitors.”  
  
That was strange to even imagine, but Yuuri knew next to nothing about Kazakhstan. “Well, maybe you could bring him to dinner while he’s visiting?” He blinked at how parental that sounded, then said, quickly, “Does he game?”  
  
Yuri nodded, suddenly grinning. “Forza? Multiplayer?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Yuuri agreed, and ignored how Victor rolled his eyes. “See you in a bit.”  
  
Back in their room, they both changed and showered with the ruthless efficiency of two men who traveled too often. When Yuuri came back from his shower, still drying his hair, he found Victor speaking French over the phone by the bed. He was frowning and jotting notes on the tiny hotel pad.  
  
“Merci,” he ended the call, and then he wrote down a few more things. When he looked up, he said, “The hospital.”  
  
Yuuri nodded, his heart suddenly in his throat. Something in Victor’s expression seemed too serious, suddenly. It hadn’t occurred to Yuuri to even worry about something else going wrong, some emergency that the hospital would have to call them about. He didn’t even want to ask. “Was it — is everything —“  
  
Victor shook his head and looked down at his notes. “No. Nothing to worry about. There’s not much change. He was even awake for part of the evening, in short doses. I’ll speak with Irina more in the morning.”  
  
A knock on their door interrupted Yuuri from asking more. Victor stood and greeted the room service waiter, directing the cart into the living room of the suite. Before he was gone, Ilya and Vadim had arrived, and they tucked into the food with such enthusiasm that Yuuri was certain they hadn’t eaten. The entire group had gathered after another ten minutes, and while they ate vegetables and sliced meats and fruit, Victor gave them an upbeat summary of Yakov’s condition.  
  
“Maybe we should go see him, after we’re done?” Katya said.  
  
Victor nodded. His tone was gentle, so much so that Yuuri thought he was likely not telling the full truth. “I’m sure we can do that. Perhaps before the gala, after everyone has earned their gold medals.”  
  
Yuuri and Vadim both groaned, while Ilya laughed. “If we’re all taking our gold medals to show him, what are you going to take, then, old man?” Yuri asked.  
  
“If I don’t have a gold of my own, you mean?” Victor raised his eyebrows. “Then I’ll take my fiancé’s.”  
  
The night wound down comfortably. No one was too disappointed in their placement that day, at least. Nathalie and Vadim had done better than expected; Katya and Ilya were pleased with their place. Yuri was already confident about his future comeback, and Victor, well, Victor genuinely seemed content with his score (and Yuuri’s), already planning to try the loop again in the free skate. Yuuri kept his mind as present as possible, enjoying the food and the camaraderie. Things would be fine.  
  
Before everyone left, they sketched out a plan for the day that looked pretty much the same as that day’s plan had. They would meet for breakfast before the public practice time, they agreed, and Yuuri saw everyone off at the door with a wave. At the threshold, though, Vadim paused.  
  
“Ah, I wondered, um, whether we should — whether someone should check out of Coach Yakov’s room for him?”  
  
Victor rested a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, as though letting him know he would handle this. “I’ve already talked to the hotel about it. Yakov’s sister, Irina, may use the room in his place. When we finish with the gala, I’ll make sure all of his things find their way to him.”  
  
Vadim looked relieved at this, and he nodded and bid them both good night. Once the door was closed, Victor smirked. “He has a little crush, I think.”  
  
Yuuri laughed. “He wouldn’t be the first fifteen year old to fall for you.”  
  
“No, not on me,” Victor said, sounding strangely scandalized. “On you, my love.”  
  
“Me? No,” Yuuri said. He couldn’t think of anything from that evening to support Victor’s claim. Vadim was a nice boy. Quiet. Serious on the ice, but easy going once he was off. His short program was a little stiff, but the technical elements were lining up in his favor. “He’s fifteen!”  
  
“Mm.” Victor squeezed his shoulders. “It’s cute.” He walked back into the room, Yuuri following him. Their earlier feast had been reduced to a few picked-clean plates, which Yuuri stacked onto the room service tray. Victor pulled a bottle of water from the mini bar. “You know, I haven’t gotten to know this group very well. Georgi and I always used to take the juniors out at least once, after they signed up with Yakov, but…“ He shrugged, sitting on the bed. “We got out of the habit, I guess.”  
  
“You’ve been busy.”  
  
“Perpetually,” Victor agreed. He took a long sip from the water bottle, then stood. “I’ll take that out. Go get ready for bed. Big day tomorrow, after all.”  
  
Yuuri decided not to argue. Instead, he took Victor’s advice, taking his turn in the bathroom, and then tucked himself into their bed. He read through a few text messages from his family and friends but decided to skip social media for the night, preferring instead to play a few rounds of his newest favorite mobile game while he waited on Victor.  
  
When Victor emerged from the bathroom, he sat on the side of the bed next to Yuuri, one hand resting on his knee. Yuuri set his phone aside and looked up at him. “I was just realizing, it’s kind of an anniversary for us tonight, isn’t it?”  
  
“Oh," Yuuri said, and then shook his head. “I’m not sure which part you want to celebrate.”  
  
Victor slid his hand out, gesturing for Yuuri’s, then rubbed his finger around Yuuri’s ring. “The best parts.” He looked up, his smile now smaller, more intimate. “How is it possible that we aren’t already married?”  
  
“I still haven’t won a Grand Prix gold, have I?” He meant it as a joke, but felt embarrassed as soon as he’d said it. Of course, the medal didn’t matter. They’d set a date just before the season had started, and Victor had been planning a big ceremony in Japan for that summer. In fact, throughout the fall, when Yuuri had returned from training or ballet, he’d often found Victor in their living room, leafing through wedding magazines or Skyping with their wedding planner. As excited as he was to marry Victor — and he was very, very excited — Yuuri had found the entire process bewildering and a little intense, and as it dragged on, he’d found it a source of quiet anxiety.  
  
Now, Victor laughed and shook his head. “Yuuri. I don’t need to kiss a gold medal to marry you. In fact,” he said, and he raised Yuuri’s hand to his lips, “no matter what happens tomorrow, I think we should get married.”  
  
Yuuri frowned a little. “I — think so, too?” he said. It wasn’t as though he’d ever seriously thought that Victor would break their engagement over the scoring at the GPF. OK. At least not more than once or twice. “We’ve already printed the save the date cards, right?” If he remembered right, they were made from linen-rich paper in a color called Hint-o-Pistachio that to Yuuri just looked like white.  
  
“No, I mean, I think we should get married right away.” He looked up, expression completely serious. “As soon as we’re back in St. Petersburg.”  
  
It took a few seconds for the words to actually register. “Really?” Yuuri said. “But — the ceremony, and the planning, and your silverware arrangements — “  
  
Victor shook his head. “We can still do the big party. I want to, of course,” he said, “but, Yuuri, I don’t want to wait another six months. I don’t want to wait another day.” His accent was suddenly thicker, a sign of real emotion.  
  
Yuuri reached up and cupped his cheek. “Oh,” he said, and then, more quietly, “Vitya, is this — about Yakov?”  
  
He leaned into Yuuri’s hand. “In a way,” he said. “He’s always been there to give me a shove when I needed it. This time, though, well, there’s nothing quite like coming face-to-face with one loved one’s mortality to make you realize what’s really important.” He turned and kissed the inside of Yuuri’s wrist. “You know, last year at this time, I was reflecting on how much our relationship had made me begin to value life and love again. I can think of no better celebration of that than being married to you.”  
  
“OK,” Yuuri said, aware that his face was probably splitting in half with his smile. “Yes, of course. I — I would love to marry you. When we get back. Right away!”  
  
Victor grinned, too. “It’s always nice to hear that,” he said. “Ah, but, what about your family? Will they be unhappy that I ran off with their darling son?”  
  
Yuuri rolled his eyes. “You did that last year,” he said. “But no. I don’t think so. They’ll just be delighted we’re still celebrating in Hasetsu.” And still relieved, he thought, that Victor was planning to pay for everything. “Oh, can I tell Phichit tomorrow?”  
  
“Of course. I’ll let Chris know, too, and we can tell our rink mates, if you’d like. I don’t know the whole process, actually. Maybe we’ll need a witness or two.”  
  
They smiled at each other and said, in unison, “Yurio.”  
  
“If we buy him something leopard print, maybe,” Victor mused. He looked past Yuuri, then frowned. “Well. Wedding planning must wait, I’m afraid. It’s time for all good skaters to be asleep, isn’t it?”  
  
“What about excellent skaters?” Yuuri asked, as Victor climbed over him to his side of the bed.  
  
“Yes, I need sleep, too,” Victor said, then laughed when Yuuri hit him with a pillow. “And super-excellent beyond-amazing skaters, like you, also need their beauty rest.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
Victor flipped off the light, then tapped on his phone screen for a moment. “I’ll set an alarm or two,” Victor said.  
  
Yuuri closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come quickly that evening. His body felt weary from the day’s events, but his mind wasn’t ready to retire quite yet. Victor’s elopement plan  had taken over his thoughts, but it was a good feeling. He was already thinking about the delight he would take each and every time he referred to him as “my husband.”  
  
Victor was still tapping on his phone a few minutes later. “Do you want to call the front desk?” Yuuri asked.  
  
“Hm? Oh, no, I’ve got it,” he said, and the phone was abruptly shut off. Two arms suddenly wrapped around him. “Good night, love.”  
  
Wrapped in Victor’s arms, imagining the swift and joyful ceremony that awaited them soon, Yuuri smiled into the dark. “Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, a note on scoring: these scores are lower (substantially!) than the short program at the GPF in the show. They're closer to the actual score range for the GPF in 2016... not because I think the show is wrong! Just because I needed to use past skaters as models for what was possible here.


	4. Layover: Friday, Dec. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of the GPF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This day is shorter than the rest, so I'm posting it with the first day.

The next morning, Yuuri texted Phichit on the way to Mila’s 11 a.m. practice, unable to contain his excitement for another moment.  
  
 **Phichit** : _Of course he wants to marry you RIGHT AWAY, you’re a catch!_  
 **Phichit** : _Ugh, you better still be having a giant party_  
 **Phichit** : _and you should honeymoon near Thailand_  
 **Phichit** : _lemme know when I can post this?_  
  
Yuuri felt his face both heat and split in a grin at the very mention of a honeymoon.  
  
He hadn’t seen much of Victor himself that morning. He’d been up earlier than Yuuri, moving swiftly through their suite before Yuuri had been able to put much more thought together than a mumbled good morning. Victor had accompanied Nathalie (and her parents) to her very early practice, then had sent her back to the hotel with them so he could go on to the hospital. That had left Yuuri and Mila (and Yuri) to round everyone up for the mid-morning practices, which they’d accomplished. After Mila, it was Vadim’s practice time, then Katya and Ilya, then the senior men — a practice that Victor did not attend. Yuuri was surprised not to hear from him, but he used the time to practice jumps while Mila filmed for him on her phone.  
  
After the men finished, Yuuri collected the entire Russian team and treated them to lunch at the nearest cafe that they could all agree upon. Phichit and Christophe came along, as well.  
  
“So Yuuri,” Christophe said, jostling Vadim slightly so he could sit beside Yuuri at their table. “Is this a shotgun affair?”  
  
“Eh?” Yuuri glanced around at the cafe, but could not decide what he meant.  
  
“I know this one,” Phichit said, grinning and squeezing between Ilya and Nathalie across the table. “He’s asking if you’re eloping because you’re pregnant.”  
  
Yuuri groaned and dropped his head into his hands, hearing the juniors begin to snicker. “Shut up! You guys, we’re in public!”  
  
“It’s just so sudden,” Christophe continued, clearly enjoying himself. “An entire year of this dreadfully long engagement, and Victor sending me pictures of tie pins coordinated to napkin holders, and now you’ve set a date that’s conveniently so soon none of us can be there to celebrate properly?”  
  
Yuuri sighed. He poked at his salad unenthusiastically. “It’s not — we’re not trying to exclude you, or anyone,” he said. Across the table, Ilya bit into a sandwich, and Yuuri envied him his teenaged metabolism. Bread would be wonderful right now. Or rice, oh god. “The party is still on. I think it’s just important to him, to us both, to be, ah, more settled?”  
  
“Gold rings, living together, raising all of these children…” Phichit said, gesturing at the table around them.   
  
“Shut the fuck up!” Yuri growled.  
  
“You don’t think that’s settled?” Christophe asked.  
  
“I, um,” Yuuri started, and then ducked his head into his hand again. He didn’t really want to explain this to anyone, not Christophe or the listening-in juniors or even Phichit. They were settled. They were perfectly happy, and still, a part of him sometimes couldn’t really let it sink in, couldn’t feel secure of Victor’s love and commitment. He didn’t know if being married would help (and really, he suspected, nothing but continuing therapy would), but he was certainly willing to try it.  
  
“What are you all talking about?” Nathalie asked, taking a seat at the end of the bench.  
  
“Victor and Yuuri are eloping,” Katya said, then looked over. “At least, I think so?”  
  
Her curiosity was, unlike Chris’s or Phichit’s, so gentle and friendly that Yuuri made himself look up. “Yes, ah. We’ve decided to just, ah, get married as soon as we can when we get back to Russia.” He stabbed a piece of chicken, but didn’t lift it yet. “Oh! Victor mentioned, you’re all invited, if you, um, want. It won’t be very exciting, but I’m sure we could have lunch together, if, if anyone has time or —“  
  
“Yeah yeah, you just want witnesses, fine,” Yuri said. “Tell Victor he’s buying. Dobrovsky’s.”  
  
“Oooh,” Vadim said.  
  
“I want Dobrovsky’s too," Nathalie said, grinning. “We’ll definitely all come! Just text us when and where?”  
  
“Is it a secret?” Katya asked.  
  
Yuuri shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess not? I mean, ah, actually, I need to tell my parents.”   
  
Katya nodded. “Embargoed, then,” she muttered, and Yuuri tried not to think too hard about how press savvy these teens already were.   
  
The rest of the meal was pleasant, and they all walked back to the arena together. Nathalie’s group would perform second that afternoon, after the junior ice dancers. Yuuri had texted Victor both before and after lunch but received no reply, so now he sent the Russian team into the stands and went with Nathalie as moral support to find her warm-up room.   
  
Yuuri waited outside of the locker room while she did last-minute touch ups to her hair, make-up, and costume. “Ah, there you are,” he heard Victor call, and he turned to see him striding down the hall. He wore his usual coaching outfit: tailored suit, stylish shoes, soft leather gloves. More than last year, more even than usual, Yuuri thought Victor looked like a coach that day. It was the slightly harried air around him, perhaps, or the too-bright tone of his voice, trying to disguise some other negative emotion.  
  
“Did you just get back?” Yuuri asked.  
  
Victor shook his head. “I went to the hotel for a nap while you were out at lunch.” He shrugged. “Old habits, you know. Is Natalya ready?”  
  
“Mostly," Yuuri said. He hadn’t seen her practice that morning, but he remembered her program the day before and how she’d talked at lunch. “She’s nervous, a bit.”  
  
“Well! I have some experience in that area as a coach, at least,” Victor said, smiling down at him. “Are you going to watch with the others?”  
  
Yuuri nodded. He felt a strange desire, then, to stay, to help somehow, but that was silly. Nathalie wasn’t really even his teammate, and she would be so relieved to have Victor there, he was sure. He did still wave and wish her luck when Victor walked her to the warm up room, then he beat a quick retreat to his seats.  
  
Victor had been right: Nathalie’s free skate wasn’t as strong as her short program. However, the strongest contenders both fell during their routines, and at the end, she was in third place. She seemed delighted by the bronze medal, which made Yuuri feel happy for her. As they watched the medals ceremony, which took place right after the junior women had cleared the ice, he wondered what Yakov would have said. Probably nothing too new or nice: that her jumps didn’t have enough height, that her transition between feet during the spin sequence was awkward, that it might be time to add a triple flip to the routine if she was going to relentlessly push the boundaries — well, that last was Victor, not Yakov. But Yuuri saw her broad grin and her parents’ pride and the way she unconsciously rubbed the medal between two fingers afterward, like it might disappear, and he felt a brief, petty flash of gratitude that Yakov wasn’t there to ruin this for her.   
  
“You did wonderfully,” he told her, when she’d left the rink and was waiting to go speak with the assembled media.  
  
Nathalie looked up at him and smiled. Nearby, her parents chatted in happy Russian to each other, both carrying folded up posters with her name. “You think so?”  
  
He nodded. “Be proud.”  
  
“Thank you,” she said, and then briefly threw her arms around him in a lightning-fast hug. Yuuri laughed, surprised, and looked up to see Victor watching them with a warm smile.  
  
“Come,” Victor said, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Let’s go try out some interviews.”  
  
They sat through Senior Dance and Senior Pairs before it was Mila’s turn. Mila, oddly, reminded Yuuri a bit of Victor: she was fully confident, not at all prone to nerves at competition. Also, like Victor, she was technically proficient beyond what her programs would show, and she, too, loved a good surprise.  
  
Unlike Victor, she had yet to begin choreographing her own skates, and Yuuri privately thought it showed. Her short program was The Skater’s Waltz. The piece was overdone, of course, but it was still powerful music. Its familiarity let the audience concentrate on the skater, and it made it possible to insert surprises: a jump when they expected a spin, for instance. Mila did some of this, but the program didn’t take full advantage of her personal style.   
  
Victor had once told him that Yakov had long told skaters they couldn’t choreograph their own programs until they could personally afford a separate choreographer. This was because he insisted he wouldn’t have the time to fix the program if they came up with something bad; realistically, it was a way to keep the younger, poorer skaters from every affording the luxury of choreographing their own programs. He wondered if this was what had stymied Mila, or if there was some other reason that she’d chosen to skate this done-before music with perfectly executed but broadly predictable moves.  
  
It didn’t matter that much, really; at the end of the short program, she was in second place, and she seemed genuinely pleased with that result.  
  
They didn’t stay for the senior pairs medal ceremony. It was already nearly 11 when they all found their way to the shuttles. Yuuri was keyed up in a way that promised a later, spectacular crash, but for the moment, he couldn’t fathom going to sleep yet. Victor took his phone into the bedroom to check in with the hospital, so Yuuri decided to make his own call. His mother would have already been up for at least an hour.  
  
“Ah, Yuuri!” she said, clearly delighted. “Did you want to Skype?”  
  
Yuuri hadn’t planned on it, but he pretended that had been his intention. His parents loved Skype, more than he would have ever guessed. Sometimes, they video-called each other from other parts of the house. It was hilarious and not a little adorable.   
  
As he waited for them to turn on their shared tablet, he thumbed through a few messages on his phone. Mari and Minako had all decided, as a vote of confidence, that they would travel to see him in the World Championships this year instead of the Grand Prix. In turn, his parents would travel for Nationals, and he’d promised to visit home after All-Japan. It was a trip he sincerely hoped would be to collect a victory katsudon, not to drown his sorrows in one.   
  
The visit was quickly a topic when the Skype call finally connected. “And will Vicchan be with you or arrive later?” his mother asked, as though she couldn’t imagine Victor wouldn’t fly immediately to Yuuri’s side. Which — fair point. “I know he has so much going on with his coach. Tomorrow, when we talk, let’s talk with him, too, can we?”  
  
“Of course,” Yuuri said. “He would like that.” He paused, staring at the door to the bedroom. “Actually, ah, Mom, Dad, we — we made a decision, ah, a small change, about getting married.”  
  
His father laughed. “Did you elope in France, then? Minako-sensei will be so sorry she missed it, but I think Mari will have won the pool.”  
  
“What! No, ah, well, close," Yuuri said, “and wait — what pool?”  
  
When Victor came to bed, forty-five minutes later, Yuuri was doing a final browse through social media. He clicked off his phone. “So my family was not surprised to hear we’re getting married right away.”  
  
Victor smiled, a tired shadow of his usual broad grin. “No, I don’t imagine they would be.”  
  
“And they still love the idea of a summer reception in Hasetsu.”  
  
“I do, too.” He turned off the bedside light, and Yuuri set his phone on the bedside table. “I didn’t realize you were talking to them, or I would have come through to say hello.”  
  
“My mother wants to chat with you tomorrow, anyway.”  
  
Victor’s nod was just a rustle of pillowcase in the dark. “To congratulate us on our wins.”  
  
“Don’t jinx it, please.” He heard Victor sigh. “How were your calls?”  
  
“Fine,” he said. “I just needed to check in with Irina, mostly. It’s too late to reach anyone in Russia.” He shifted. “I was reading through his folio.”  
  
“Oh,” Yuuri said. “You, um. What for?”  
  
“Notes on the performances tomorrow," Victor said. “I’m surprised to learn that he’s considered letting Vadim try a quad combo.”  
  
Yuuri thought through what he’d seen of Vadim’s programs and, then, what he’d seen of the others. “The American he’s up against is doing them,” Yuuri said. “He’s at least seventeen.”  
  
“I know,” Victor said, “or, at least, I do now. Yakov had notes on everyone.” Yuuri leaned up on one elbow, watching Victor frown. “Even me.”  
  
“Let me guess: ‘Brilliant, never listens.’”  
  
“Close,” Victor said. “He literally wrote in the margin that I will be the death of him. Luckily, even I’m not egotistical enough to take full responsibility for all of this.” Before Yuuri could say anything, Victor snagged his free hand. “I think he admires your program.”  
  
“It’s very well choreographed,” Yuuri said.  
  
“True, true,” Victor said. Yuuri watched his eyes flutter closed. “Do you think your mother will make katsudon for the wedding reception?”  
  
“If we ask," Yuuri said, “though it’s kind of hard to make for lots of people.”  
  
“Just for us, then,” Victor said, and Yuuri hummed his agreement, settling in against Victor’s side. He rested his head in the dip by Victor’s collarbone. The steady beat of his heart was soothing, though Yuuri could feel tension in his body.  
  
“You’re all right?” he asked.  
  
“I’m fine,” Victor said. “Just thinking about the dinner service, actually. Do you think if we have goblets, people will —“  
  
It was like magic. Victor murmured about wedding reception plans above him, and Yuuri’s brain turned itself off immediately. He barely heard Victor’s whispered, amused good night before he crashed into heavy sleep.


	5. Take off (Sat., Dec. 10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last competition day of the GPF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few overdue notes: I realized this week I'd been mostly internally consistent in my naming conventions here, but I did even more reading into Russian diminutives/pet names and made two small name edits in the first four chapters. (huge thanks to [the tumblr post about this](http://niedolia.tumblr.com/post/158793053134/psa-for-the-yoi-fandom-russian-names-how-to-use) by niedolia). 
> 
> This also set me off on a journey of name/initial permission exploration, so now this is marked as part of a series, because I have a first-time-in-this-universe story to add soon.
> 
> Finally, please note the ratings change here. There's a tiny, tiny bit of sex included; if it's not your thing, you can skip six paragraphs starting at "Let me take care of you."

Yuuri felt Yakov’s absence keenly and selfishly the next morning. If he’d been there, Yuuri would have been able to sleep for another hour at least, before taking a leisurely breakfast with Victor and then, perhaps, a slow warm up in their hotel room. Instead, he’d been up before 7, ringing rooms and packing a bag full enough to carry him the next 13 hours at the rink.  
  
Of course, if things had been normal, Yuuri would have already felt like he’d swallowed an orange whole from the rising anxiety. Typical competitions meant a two- or three-day intense focus on his own performance, his own flaws and falls and common missteps. So far, this Grand Prix had presented few opportunities to obsess about his own shortcomings; instead, he’d spent his time herding junior skaters.  
  
He managed to get everyone onto the shuttle well in advance of the stupidly early Junior Men’s practice at 8:30. If he didn’t get on the podium, he thought wryly, this would be his biggest accomplishment of the weekend. Somehow, exchanging his normal routine and its usual anxiety for the chaos of the last few days had been a reasonably good trade off, he realized, though the circumstances themselves were pretty terrible.  
  
Nathalie sat across from him on the bus, bundled up and wearing casual clothing. Her parents had already left for the airport, flying home in time to get work done over the weekend. She didn’t seem to mind, but Yuuri had also frequently put on a brave face at her age. “I didn’t wear my medal,” she said, shaking her head. “Ilya was telling me everyone would be, but that didn’t sound right.”  
  
“It’s not,” Yuuri said. “Don’t worry. You did the right thing.”  
  
They’d all been very good sports about Victor’s absence that morning. Yuuri was sure they were upset to be not only without their coach but without their substitute coach. He also was upset, to be honest, and wished Victor would have stayed with them all morning, but he understood. Yakov needed him right then, more than Yuuri and their rink mates, and Yuuri thought the need was mutual. Victor had seemed oddly anxious that morning, and Yuuri had caught him staring at the leather folio for a moment too long before he’d left for the hospital. He hoped Yakov was recovering swiftly and well; beyond that, he hoped the morning visit would settle Victor’s nerves, and that he’d return as soon as possible.  
  
As it turned out, he got part of his wish. Yuuri saw Vadim through his practice, ignoring the curious lifted eyebrow he got from the other coaches at rinkside, and then watched Katya and Ilya do theirs. They had decided to swap two jumps in their free skate, so Yuuri watched as they recreated that section for him. It looked beautiful, and it would certainly earn them more points to do the combination early when their legs were strong than to fall on it later.  
  
Victor returned in time for the men’s practice, just after noon; he seemed to simply appear out of nowhere at the very moment it was time for everyone to take the ice. They made for a strange parade out to the rink: instead of the usual row of skaters flanked by coaches, there were three sets (Christophe, Phichit, and JJ) and then Yuri, Yuuri, and Victor in a straight line.  
  
“No jumps,” Victor said to them both, then took the ice, waved, and did a triple Lutz as warm up.  
  
Yuri said, “Fuck that noise,” did a full lap, and then threw a triple Axel into the gap between Chris and Phichit. Behind them, JJ stood at center ice to do a run-through. Yuuri used the time to run a few slow laps and to think through the second half of his program. When the music turned, next, to Victor’s piece, Yuuri leaned back against the boards. He sipped his water, aware in a hollow, anxious way of the television cameras that were focusing on him. Calm, calm, he thought, which never really helped. Present.  
  
The boards vibrated as Yuri pulled up next to him. He kept his back to the ice as he drank from his own water bottle. “Warm-up is dumb,” he said.  
  
“Ah, yeah,” Yuuri agreed. He appreciated the ice time, but the effort of dodging five other skaters and worrying about how the judges were watching, already, made it one of his least favorite ice times.  
  
“Katya and Ilya looked good this morning,” he said. “They might not fuck everything up.”  
  
Yuuri cracked a smile. “Wow, such encouragement. Are you considering coaching as a career?” he asked, and Yuri laughed out a curse. On the other side of the rink, Victor spun into a quad flip-triple loop combo, effortless, perfect, his face serene. Well. Some parts of practice had their advantages.  
  
After practice, they had only an hour before Vadim’s skate. Victor ushered the whole team into a practice room he’d somehow blocked off for their use. It had two walls full of dusty mats, another lined with scratched mirrors, and a cluster of shelves holding a broad array of workout gear. More importantly, it held two hotel take-out bags full of skater-appropriate snacks and drinks, and most of the team fell on these like a pack of ravenous lions.  
  
Yuuri needed a few more minutes before he could stomach anything, though he’d have to eat something to make it through the afternoon without crashing. Victor nibbled on a protein bar and answered questions as the team gathered around, assuring them that Yakov was looking forward to watching their performances. “He’ll be double full of feedback, don’t worry,” Victor said.  
  
“Oh no,” Mila said, but she was smiling.  
  
They all settled carefully onto the mats, and Yuuri watched their headphones come out, knew that they were all surfacing only briefly from competition preparation to eat and chat. The air felt a little thick in the room, tense, and Yuuri wanted out. He squeezed his water bottle and gestured toward the door, trying to signal that he was going to fill it. Really, he just needed a moment, which Victor’s raised eyebrow seemed to acknowledge.  
  
He hadn’t been nervous yet that weekend, not in the panicky real anxiety way, but he’d been waiting. Even now, he wasn’t sure whether this was going to be a bad round or not. His hands felt steady, and his practice had gone surprisingly well. So far, focusing on the other skaters had proven an effective diversion for him, and so as he paced up and down the hall a few times, he thought back to their programs. Pairs skaters, he thought again, were absolutely crazy. He’d been watching the competition live five years ago, when the couple from China had suffered their disastrous fall. Yuuri had seen and experienced hundreds of falls on the ice, but that one had made him feel nauseated. He’d eyed his own boots warily for a few days afterwards. Ilya and Katya were good, though. They’d be fine. They were the best.  
  
As he walked back to the warm up room, thinking through their throws, he saw Victor leaning against the wall just outside. They’d been texting off and on all morning, but Victor’s messages had been uncharacteristically short, and they hadn’t had a chance to talk, really, since he’d come back from the hospital. Yuuri hadn’t pressed, but now, seeing the shadows beneath his eyelids, he wondered if he should have. Victor was staring at the wall ahead of him, expression drawn.  
  
Yuuri touched his shoulder, lightly, and Victor shuddered. “Ahh, Yuuri,” he said, gaze focusing suddenly. “There you are.”  
  
Yuuri looked up at Victor. The hall was mostly empty, but he could hear the buzz of conversation from the other end. Cameras lurked just around the bend. It wasn’t a safe space in a few ways. Still, Yuuri wanted to acknowledge the weariness, the worry, he could see behind Victor’s practiced mask. He settled for resting his hand on Victor’s biceps. “Were things all right at the hospital?” he asked, voice as quiet as he could make it.  
  
“Yes, fine,” Victor said. He glanced at the door. “You said their practice went well?”  
  
Yuuri had sent Victor a few text notes after the public practice had wrapped for the juniors that morning. Yuri and Mila had been watching, as well, and Yuuri guessed their help had been more welcome and more substantial than his own. He’d been mostly only able to comment positively on a few elements from each program. Vadim, for instance, had a triple salchow in combination that he did particularly well, and Yuuri had gently reminded him that the entrance for that combination would make a useful and graceful transition into a later, troublesome solo triple salchow. “I don’t think I told them anything they hadn’t heard a million times before,” Yuuri admitted, shrugging.  
  
“Reinforcement might be just what they need,” Victor said. “Speaking of which, let me remind you that you look gorgeous today.”  
  
“Oh,” Yuuri said, and ducked his head slightly. He let his hand fall until it was looped around Victor’s wrist. “You, ah. You, too.”  
  
Victor smiled, something that was just a little closer to his real smile. “Thank you. Are you going to show me some gorgeous skating today?”  
  
It was strange, but Yuuri had nearly managed to forget that his own free skate was approaching. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “I — I always want to show you something beautiful.”  
  
Now, finally, Victor’s face seemed to soften, gentling into the small, closed smile that he guarded. “You always do,” he said. He brushed Yuuri’s hair back from his face, and his fingers were surprisingly cold. “I’ll watch every second.”  
  
“I know,” Yuuri murmured.  
  
“Hey!” Yuri’s skate bag collided loudly but gently with the back of Yuuri’s leg. “Knock it off!”  
  
Victor raised an eyebrow, and inwardly, Yuuri did the same. Yuri crossed his arms. “Are you watching the kids or not?”  
  
“Dima is barely younger than you," Victor said.  
  
“He’s in juniors,” Yuri said, crossing his arms. “He’s practically a baby.”  
  
“He’s —“ Before Victor could respond, he startled, then drew his buzzing phone from his pocket. He frowned as he lifted it. “Lilia. Excuse me,” he said, and started down the hall.  
  
“Huh,” Yuri said, watching him go. Then he lifted his bag and looked at Yuuri. “You coming or what?”  
  
They both took up positions in the corner of the warm up room. While Yuuri had been pacing, the other skaters had rearranged the room a bit, revealing a long barre stretched across the mirror. The venue had a few rooms like this, all equipped now for stretching and warm up but probably usually more likely to hold weekend yoga classes or a beginner’s course in jump training. Yuuri was silently glad that Victor had found this space for them; as soon as they left, they’d be under the gaze of the cameras, again, live-streamed on the ISU YouTube channel and through a hundred spectators’ phones. For the moment, the Russians had this space to themselves, a blur of white, red, and blue warm up gear.  
  
Mila and Vadim sat in one corner, both running through their stretching routines with the kind of rote, resigned endurance that Yuuri often saw in Victor. Yakov had engaged a top physical trainer to build these routines individually for each of his skaters, and as far as Yuuri could tell, every single one hated their prescribed stretches. Across the room, Katya and Ilya worked through a few synchronized movements, slowly, their hands fluttering like tandem butterflies. Nathalie offered Mila a hand to stretch out her back. Every one of the athletes had in earbuds, but the room had music piped in, too, the generic background hum from whatever demonstration was currently on the ice.  
  
Yuuri took a seat on a stack of folded mats in the corner. He needed to stay warmed up, but he didn’t want to do too many stretches this far out. Yuri crossed and recrossed his arms, paced the width of the room once, and then sat beside Yuuri with more force than he should have been able to generate. Katya waved to them from across the room, but she didn’t come over, so Yuuri didn’t seek her out. He wasn’t sure what to do, other than wait to see if anyone needed anything. He wondered how long Victor would be on the phone.  
  
“Does Yakov usually come to warm up like this?” he asked Yuri.  
  
“What?” He blinked, then shook his head. “No. Sometimes. I don’t know.”  
  
“OK.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Yuuri shrugged. “Just wondering.”  
  
“Well, do it quieter," Yuri said, sliding his headphones on.  
  
Across the room, Mila did a graceful leap, and Vadim bent into a serviceable arabesque.  
  
Yuuri used the mirror to study Yuri for a moment. He noticed the way Yuri’s foot tapped gently against the mat. He watched his hand toy with the strap of his skate bag. Though his arms were crossed and he was leaning down, Yuuri realized Yuri’s expression was much like Victor’s, a public mask built around expectation. Yuri, though, was 16, and he lacked both Victor’s talent for and interest in crafting a smooth public persona, so the cracks were more obvious.  
  
Everyone expected two things of Yuri Plisetsky these days: beautiful skating, and brutal brattiness. No one ever seemed to remember that he was a 16-year-old kid under all that bravado and bladework. Yuuri nudged him with his elbow, gently, and Yuri glared over. Yuuri just kept looking at him until he saw Yuri’s frown deepen and his shoulders flatten.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re going to do fine today,” Yuuri said.  
  
Yuri rolled his eyes. “I know that. Shut up.”  
  
“Do you want me to film it or something, for later?” They both recognized this as the sentimental offer that it was. The venue would be filming every performance, and they’d be able to review those tapes afterwards. Yakov always managed to get his hands on the digital film from their performances, giving them the chance to observe themselves at multiple angles. He had even done this for Yuuri, at Skate America and NHK the past year.  
  
So there was no way, really, that Yuri needed a shaky cell-phone camera version of his own skate, save one: it would give him something to show Yakov the next day, if he was well enough, something he could play back even if the hospital had no wifi or if the high quality videos hadn’t yet been uploaded. Yuuri watched these realizations flicker past his eyes before he just nodded. “Whatever. Just don’t drop my phone or something. It’s a custom case.”  
  
Yuuri nodded, accepting this as thanks. They sat quietly for another minute, but it didn’t feel as tense. Yuri’s foot had stilled against the floor. When he spoke next, his voice was quieter, though no less sharp than usual. “Dima’s gonna fall on his ass on dry ground if he doesn’t stop that,” he muttered.  
  
Sure enough, Vadim was trying to recreate one of his jumps from his program, but his spin was too fast, nearly out of control. His free leg came within inches of striking Nathalie, and that was what drew Yuuri up out of his corner. “Vadim,” he said, approaching quietly, “would you like to take a break for a minute?”  
  
The boy’s skin was already flushed, but his face pinked up considerably as Yuuri stepped near. That was — huh. He would never tell Victor. “Oh, I, I can keep going!” Vadim said. “I’m not tired, or, um —“  
  
“No, I didn’t think you were,” Yuuri said. “It actually looked like you needed to burn off a little energy?” That was a kind way that his past coaches had often noticed Yuuri’s own nerves. “I, ah, have the same issue some times. Have you tried a little jogging, maybe?”  
  
Vadim blinked at him. “But I did my warm-up routine exactly.”  
  
“Yes, I’m sure your muscles are fine,” Yuuri said. He shrugged. “It’s only a suggestion. I find it settles my mind, sometimes. You know. If that’s, if you want that? But maybe you’re fine.” Vadim was looking up at him with widened eyes, but his expression was hard to decipher. Of course, he was used to Yakov, and here Yuuri was with his stammering advice born from only his own experience, not exactly a world-class trainer or —  
  
“OK!” Vadim said. “I think I’ll try it. It’s better than nearly clocking Natalya, isn’t it?”  
  
“By far,” she said, with an affectionate eye roll. “Get going.”  
  
The more he stayed with the Russians, the more Yuuri had begun to understand their brand of rink-mate camaraderie. It wasn’t the friendly closeness he’d had with Phichit or Yuuko. The team here was competitive to the core, almost before anything else. They still liked each other, though. In fact, being accepted as a competitor was the official mark of friendship for this team. He had always believed something would change when he was first able to share the ice with Victor. Now, he saw that being seen as an equal and a rival (or at least a potential one) was the necessary precursor to friendship for Victor. That was Yakov’s doing, he thought, for good or for ill. His skaters were athletes and stars and competitors, no matter whether they were on home ice or away. They understood each other. They challenged each other.  
  
Yuuri had spent the last six months realizing that, while he wasn’t suited to being coached by someone as voluble with criticism as Yakov often was, he could flourish in an atmosphere of challenge. At Celestino’s rink, he’d been supported but also a bit smothered, managing to barely meet low expectations. In Russia, the expectations were so high as to be unattainable, and that, somehow, lessened the pressure.  
  
Looking out at the juniors, Yuuri thought they were all fantastic testaments to Yakov’s system in some important ways. Victor was Yakov’s shining jewel, but these young skaters, brought up on his legend and at his own rink, would carry on both of their legacies.

* * *

  
They did Yakov proud. Vadim ran off just enough energy that he didn’t look ready to bolt or throw up as he walked to the boards for his final skate. With Victor at the sidelines, he scored a new personal best and ended the competition with a silver medal. Katya and Ilya nailed their paired double-axel with such grace that Katya’s face glowed with happiness, and they won the gold medal by three points: almost exactly what they’d scored for GOE on that jump. That put a representative from Yakov’s rink at every podium level for the JGPF. Vadim and Katya both had teary eyes as they accepted their medals, and Yuuri suspected they would both thank Yakov profusely during the follow-up press events.  
  
Throughout the day, Yuuri played support staff for the team. He held blade guards for Katya and Ilya, brought Vadim his water bottle, and physically blocked two over-eager members of the press from interrogating Nathalie. Either Victor or Yuuri were always nearby during the post-skate interviews; Victor led Vadim through the media suite after his program while Yuuri stood rinkside for Katya and Ilya, and then it was their turn while Senior Dance finished on the ice. Yuuri was no great expert at handling the media, but he agreed with Victor that it set the right tone, at least, for someone else from the team to be on hand when their 14-year-old teammates were in front of the cameras. He might not be known for his confidence, but Yuuri thought he’d have no problem breaking in if anyone asked too much about Yakov.  
  
Victor was there for everything, too, smooth and tall and certain in his coaching persona, but he was also distracted. Yuuri could only imagine the pressure he was feeling as the stand-in coach for five other skaters, plus Yuuri, on top of his own performance. And, of course, he was probably worried about Yakov.  
  
“Oh, he’s recovering nicely, thank you for asking,” Victor said for maybe the fourth or fifth time that hour, as they walked out of the locker room that evening. It was nearly 8; they’d been at the rink for eleven hours.  
  
“I am glad to hear this,” Josef, Christophe’s coach, said. “I would expect nothing less of him.”  
  
“Yes, he is doing very well!” Something in Victor’s tone made Yuuri glance over at him. He didn’t sound exactly right; there was a note of projection there that he associated with Victor’s press presence, his voice dipping into the low smooth register he reserved for performance. Then again, he’d been answering this question so much that he likely was automating his response, trying not to think about it. Yuuri could understand.  
  
It was nearly 8. The senior ladies had just finished, which meant Mila was on her own in the media room. She’d under-rotated a triple Lutz, but everything else had been clean and graceful. Sara Crispino had taken gold by barely two points, which meant that Mila would stand on her first senior GPF platform — as soon as the senior men wrapped up.  
  
And that was about to happen. They’d been at the rink all day, and there was a small part of Yuuri that was just ready to be done. He’d been struggling all day not to separate his outer and inner selves, the projecting public parts and the weary hidden parts. This was something his therapist had been urging him toward. She’d prescribed a meditation app, in fact, which Yuuri used in fits and starts. That afternoon, he’d spent seven minutes with headphones, locked into a bathroom cubicle, listening to the soothing voice of the meditation leader and thinking about his thoughts as balloons and clouds.  
  
Now, chatting with Christophe’s coach, he thought, _Present_ , and curled his hand around Victor’s. _I am here in this moment._  
  
Victor looked over at him, and his eyelids flicked downward, briefly, his mouth opening just slightly. “Time to warm up?”  
  
Yuuri nodded. They excused themselves from Josef, then walked to the rink. Phichit had just entered the ice for warm-ups, and he turned and gave them a thumbs up, then skated backwards to the center and waved at the crowd. Yuuri took a deep breath.  
  
The ice this year seemed so different. It was hard to describe, though he’d tried to put it into words a few times for Victor, for Minako, and once even for Yeva. For so many years, skating had been something he’d done alone. His family had always supported him, but that’s what it had felt like: support. It had felt interchangeable, almost disinterested, as though if Yuuri had decided that he wanted to be a concert pianist or a chef or a poet, they would have smiled the same smiles and sent the same checks to make sure he had the right equipment and coaching. He was starting to understand that their support was valuable because it had been so abstract: they supported Yuuri, because they loved and valued him, no matter what he did, and that was precious.  
  
But they’d never really understood skating. Minako did, and Yuuko did to an extent, but none of them had lived and died and bled and strived on ice the way Yuuri had. There had always been a point when the people closest to him had fallen back or away, and he’d felt alone in his pursuits: Alone, on a plane to America as a teenager; alone, on a plane to Sochi, for the Grand Prix; alone, in his last few days at the rink in Detroit, drilling Victor’s old performance just to feel close to someone else.  
  
Now, though, he was surrounded by people who understood. He was with people with whom he could share his smallest triumphs (a day of good edge work) and defeats (the wrong edge on his axel landing). They understood why these things frustrated or elated him. They felt them, too. It was like coming to a new country and discovering that they spoke the language that you thought in, not just one you could speak.    
  
And the ice, well. It had always felt like coming home to glide onto smooth practice ice, but now, it felt like throwing open the door to a full house, teeming with his loved ones. He had begun to understand that the language he spoke on the ice was not only his, but also the language of those around him: the other skaters, the fans, the coaches. They were in it together.  
  
Together.  
  
He lifted Victor’s hand and kissed his ring, smiling when Victor’s calm facade melted into something true and personal. “Yurasha,” he said, his fingers briefly turning to cup Yuuri’s cheek.  
  
“Davai,” Yuuri murmured, then squeezed his hand before he let him go and turned to the welcoming ice.

People tended to forget that Victor didn’t skate his emotions. Victor used the ice like a canvas. He painted a picture with his skating. Yes, it was emotional, but those emotions were planned, sketched into beautiful relief exactly as he had practiced. He moved gracefully, lyrically, and his face was expressive, but Yuuri could say now that this, too, was practiced. The Victor Nikiforov that the audience saw was one constructed as surely as any building: piece by piece, with studied attention and to exacting specifications. He had watched Victor perform in front of a mirror in the dance studio, testing expressions and gestures like one might try on a mask. It was startling and, if Yuuri hadn’t had access to the soft sweet core of the man, he might have wondered why he went to such lengths. Victor’s heart was so big, though, and so eager, that he’d needed that extra veneer, that protective false layer, between him and the hungry world.  
  
That afternoon, though, Yuuri could see the cracks. He watched Victor standing straight and tall, shoulders squared and face tight, as he sent Yuri onto the ice. A harsh crackle of Russian flickered between them, Victor’s eyes narrowing, Yuri’s face settling into his blank performance mask. Yuuri stood a half-meter away, clutching Yuri’s phone, and worried. “Davai!” he called, and Yuri rolled his eyes, which was enough.  
  
Yuri’s performance started strong. He leaned into his early jumps energetically, his skates smashing into the landings with such aggression that Yuuri winced. He hoped the video didn’t catch that. It did, though, catch his fall on the quad-single-triple combination in the second half, and probably both Yuuri’s quiet gasp and Victor’s grunt. Yuri plowed on, his dazzling orange-and-black shirt fluttering as he twirled into an impressive triple axel. He fell again, a knee down hard on the ice, attempting his quad Lutz too late in the program, and Yuuri felt such a surge of warmth and admiration for him. Yuri just kept fighting. The over-energetic jumps were were part of his struggle that year: he’d grown an inch and a half since the last GPF, and he seemed to believe all the new height required was more energy, more intensity, more anger.  
  
Victor was supposed to go to the kiss-and-cry with him, but at the barrier, Yuri turned first to Yuuri. “Just erase it,” he said, panting. “Erase the whole damn day, I can’t —“  
  
“Yurio,” Yuuri said, resting his hand on his shoulder. “You were amazing. I’m going to watch that quad sal entrance every day for the next month.”  
  
“Shut up,” he said, giving Yuuri a shove, and then his hand clutched into the material at the elbow of Yuuri’s jacket. He glared up at Victor. “Shouldn’t you be on the ice, old man?”  
  
Victor raised an eyebrow, and Yuuri shrugged. Above them, a young girl squealed Yuri’s name, and Yuuri turned just in time to catch a plush leopard before it could hit Yuri in the face.  
  
“Hah? Oh,” he said, and took it from Yuuri. He glared up, and the girl squealed again, having apparently earned the reaction she wanted.  
  
Yuuri pushed Yuri toward the kiss-and-cry. He touched Victor’s cheek, gently. “Ganbatte, Vitka!”  
  
“See you soon,” Victor said, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s ring. He turned to get on the ice, and Yuuri followed Yuri to get his scores. On the way, Yuuri wondered if perhaps Yuri was relieved to have Yuuri with him for the kiss-and-cry because he’d known his scores would be low and wouldn’t have wanted Victor trying to channel Yakov when they were announced.  
  
“The scores for Yuri Plisetsky…” the announcer’s voice started.  
  
“That’s good,” Yuuri said, reading the numbers from the screen.  
  
“Huh,” Yuri muttered. His score would put him in first place for the moment, but it wouldn’t keep him there. He’d outscored Phichit by 2 and J.J. by 3. Clearly, he had expected a lower score, but Yuuri wasn’t sure why. Phichit’s program was good, but the difficulty was substantially lower than Yuri’s. J.J. continued to be inconsistent in competitions, and his parent-coaches had tried to compensate this year by giving him an easier program that could grow in time for Worlds. Yuri, even with a fall or two, would always have landed above them. Then again, it seemed likely he’d never considered what the lower half of the GPF scores would look like. He’d probably never considered the chance he’d be among them.  
  
“Well, you could still medal,” Yuuri said, as Victor skated a loop and waved to his fans. They’d decided to stay and watch Victor from the kiss-and-cry. Really, Yuri was supposed to be sitting backstage in the little green velvet chairs where cameras spied down the “current leaders” as they waited for results. Yuuri didn’t blame Yuri for skipping that debacle. Yuuri noticed that Yuri had set up his camera to record the skate, and he was glad. It was hard for him to imagine a skating competition without Yakov watching Victor.  
  
Yuri looked up. “How? You gonna go kneecap Victor?”  
  
Yuuri laughed, a quick, sharp thing. “I can’t. I really want to marry him.”  
  
Yuri made a gagging noise, but when his shoulder bumped against Yuuri’s, it wasn’t as violent as it could have been.  
  
Victor had chosen a moody, sprawling piece for this free skate. It swelled and boomed and then hollowed into silence, and Victor had choreographed his jumps to land in exactly those quiet, open moments. The hit-scrape of his landing skates echoed across the entire arena when Victor nailed his opening quad toe-triple toe combo, and then again when he landed the quad loop after a beautiful step sequence. Yuuri couldn’t help smiling as he watched him. Victor’s skating was beautiful, and he was doing so well. The stiffness he’d seen before, the strangely distant manner, none of that really mattered on the ice, at least.  
  
The symphony music opened like a flower, the sound unfurling gently but surely, beautiful and colorful and demanding, and then with the strike of a cymbal, faded into the last stretch of silence. Victor spun in a gorgeous, high quad Lutz, reminiscent of Christophe’s best — and suddenly, Yuuri understood the change he could see. This wasn’t Victor’s program as usual. It was Victor’s tribute. It was Victor, starting with the first quad he’d ever learned from Yakov; Victor, giving his fans the wanted loop and the flip that he’d made famous; Victor, skating a quad toeloop with both arms raised, a perfect mirror of Yuri’s final jump from Agape; Victor giving Christophe a send-off with that gorgeous Lutz, like a thank-you kiss for their constant rivalry; and, at the end of his program, it was Victor, sliding from a gorgeous spread eagle into a triple axel, his golden ring brushing his lips just after he landed and before he fell into a final, fluttering spin.  
  
This gorgeous skate had been Victor’s heart on the ice. It had been Victor’s goodbye.  
  
Yuuri rushed to the exit while Victor was still completing his bows. He skated to the entry with his head down, one hand raised to acknowledge the crowd, and Yuuri stepped up to greet him with open arms. He staggered briefly under the sudden weight of Victor slumping against him but held on, felt Victor press his sweat-damp face briefly against Yuuri’s neck and sigh.  
  
“Thank you, Vitka,” he whispered, and Victor nodded and pulled back. His eyes were dry, his face too calm though his chest heaved with rushed breathing.  
  
“Have to keep giving you a challenge, don’t I?” He said, voice too light. “Come sit with me, then I’ll help you stretch again.”  
  
“OK,” he said, and followed Victor to the kiss-and-cry, holding his hand.  
  
Yuri waited for them there, and he scowled dramatically when Victor’s score moved him into first place. Just to be difficult, they decided to stay there to watch Christophe’s program, too. Yuuri stretched just out of range of the cameras while they watched Christophe’s last performance. He had a stumble on the quad toe-loop that he turned into a flourish, but his Lutz became a triple not long after that. It was a clean skate in that he didn’t fall, but Yuuri felt a little apprehension as it ended. He imagined this wasn’t what Chris had wanted for his last GPF.  
  
Still, he did well enough to just barely edge above Yuri.  
  
“Don’t kneecap me," Yuuri said, when Yuri stalked close as they walked back to the rink entrance.  
  
“Someone’s gotta beat him,” he said, jutting a thumb at Victor.  
  
Victor smiled. “Do your best,” he murmured, cupping Yuuri’s cheek briefly. “Show us what it means to be committed, won’t you?”  
  
Yuuri felt himself blush. He’d announced commitment as his theme in another embarrassingly too-honest JSF press conference at the beginning of the year. He unzipped his jacket and handed it to Victor who, to his surprise, slid it around his own shoulders. “I’ll show everyone,” he promised.  
  
“I know,” Victor said.  
  
They might have stood there, staring at one another forever, except Yuri shouldered into Victor with a sharp grunt. “Get out there unless you’re just going to give up, loser,” he said.  
  
Yuuri was laughing as he took to the ice.  
  
They had planned this free skate so carefully. It had become a growing, living thing between them, steeped in possibility. At its best potential, the skate would surpass Yuuri’s own personal best and last year’s world record, but he had yet to skate it in competition to that level of perfection. The last time he’d done a complete run-through in Russia, he’d downgraded the final combination, not out of exhaustion but, instead, out of some feeling that making it real would jinx it later on. He felt like he had one perfect skate of this program in him, and that he’d been saving it for this moment.  
  
But now, having seen Victor’s skate, having understood it, he wanted more. That was something he’d begun to understand about himself only this year: He always wanted more.  
  
So his opening quad Lutz added an arm up; he did a triple flip in his second combo instead of a loop, and then a quad toe-triple toe-double toe combo just over the second half line. Instead of the play-it-safe triple flip combo, he did a quad flip-double loop-triple salchow at the end. He did the quad salchow that no one else had landed that afternoon, and followed it with the gorgeous, blistering step sequence Victor had designed for him.  
  
When he sunk into his final, crouched position, he’d done six clean quads, two in combinations, without stepping out of any. He thought maybe he’d been on the wrong edge on the landing of the Lutz, but otherwise: oh my god, he thought, and his hearing cleared as though he’d just come up from under water. The crowd was on its feet, the cheers deafening. He’d shown them everything he had, everything he’d been able to accomplish with Victor. His hands shook as he pushed himself up off the ice.  
  
“Holy shit, Katsudon,” Yuri said, gripping his elbow as he put back on his skate guards. His legs trembled; he hadn’t caught his breath yet. “What the fuck was that?”  
  
“Where’s Victor?” he asked, glancing left and right. It wasn’t like him to be anywhere but right at the exit.  
  
“His phone rang right as you finished,” Yuri said, and something in his tone made Yuuri pause. Yakov, he thought, seeing Yuri’s blank stare. “Don’t get weepy, he watched your whole skate like the stalker he is.”  
  
“Oh,” Yuuri said, and before his disappointment could manifest, he was grabbed from behind on both shoulders.  
  
“A-maz-ing!” Mila said, shaking him a little. “Yura! Oh my god!”  
  
Yuuri laughed, lightheaded, grinning more as he realized the entire Russian team had followed Mila down. An ISU official nearby had started to gesture him toward the kiss-and-cry, and Yuuri could see the television cameras had swung their way. When he stepped back, just a bit, used to taking Victor’s lead, Mila’s arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders. “Come, come, let’s all go see what winning a gold medal looks like, yes?”  
  
And that was how he wound up in the kiss-and-cry with six Russian skaters at his side when the announcers declared his free skate performance not only a new personal best but also a new world record.  
  
“You won!” Mila said, voice like a squeal.  
  
“You won!” Katya and Ilya said in unison, their grins broad and delighted.  
  
“Huh, guess you won,” Yuri muttered, but his kick was pretty gentle, all things considered.  
  
Yuuri swallowed hard, eyes suddenly filling with tears. He wanted to curl down into himself, away from the noise and the congratulations, just for a moment. He wanted to bury his face in Victor’s shoulder, their usual post-score routine now, and hide from the attention and the world.  
  
“Congratulations, Yuuri,” Vadim said, ducking around Yuri to say it.  
  
Something about his young, joyful voice brought Yuuri back into himself. He looked up and saw the smiles all around him, remembered the cameras and the crowd. “Thanks, Dima,” Yuuri said, and watched the boy’s face flush pink.  
  
“Are we just staying here and hoping they throw you the medal or what?” Yuri asked.  
  
“Right, right," Yuuri said, and he stood, waving again to the crowds before leading his rinkmates out of the kiss-and-cry. There were three ways they could go from here: up into the stands, which would be just about pointless since everyone would leave soon; into the common and lobby areas, where the press would be set up and ready to hold the many interviews expected of the medalists; or toward the warm-up and locker rooms, where a skater might steal a few minutes of relative calm and quiet.  
  
“Ladies first," Mila said. “Go get good seats, all right?” She pointed the juniors toward the nearest stands. “I want the best Instagram shots.” She looked back at Yuuri and Yuri. “Go find Vitya.”  
  
Yuuri nodded while Yuri cursed beside him. Finding Victor was actually his priority at the moment, and at least they’d know where to look. To take a phone call, he probably hadn’t stepped into a locker room — but he might have found a quiet training space where he could speak without being overheard. Yuuri sent Yuri to check the locker rooms just in case, then walked back to where the Russians had warmed up earlier.  
  
Victor was inside, leaning against the stacked mats in the far corner of the room. Through the door, Yuuri could see his face reflected in the wall of mirrors. He had one fist pressed to his mouth, the other holding his phone down at his side. His head was tipped forward, as though he was staring down, but Yuuri doubted he was seeing anything.  
  
Yuuri knocked softly and watched Victor whirl, startled, a fake smile already gathering on his face. The beading on his costume rustled against his jacket. “Hi,” Yuuri said, stepping in.  
  
Victor’s face fell, the false mask turning immediately into sorrow. “Oh, Yuuri. I’m so, so sorry. I — your skate, it was amazing. That was the best I’ve ever seen you do it! I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you finished.”  
  
Yuuri nodded, taking a few steps into the room. It was surprisingly quiet here, and cold. The musty smell of the mats mixed with the tang of cleaning sprays in the air. He fiddled with the edge of his costume vest, wishing he had his jacket. Victor’s skates sat in a little lump against the nearest wall, hard guards still on, carelessly discarded. Yuuri’s concern for him managed to stop, if not erase, the disappointment and the anxious abandonment he’d started to feel. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Yuri said you had a phone call.”  
  
A complicated dance of emotions played on Victor’s face: concern, fear, maybe embarrassment or shame. “Mm. Yes,” he murmured, after a moment. He seemed to suddenly remember the phone in his hand, and he abruptly stuffed it into his pocket. “Time for the medals?”  
  
“Vitya,” Yuuri murmured. He wanted to step closer, but the mats were hard to navigate in his skates, and he didn’t know that he’d have time to take them off and put them on before meeting with the press. “What’s going on?”  
  
Victor looked past him. “I can’t really talk about it,” he said.  
  
“Can’t?”  
  
It took him a moment, but then he nodded. “Shouldn’t.”  
  
“Ah.” Yuuri saw his own frown in the mirror behind Victor. “Is Yakov all right?”  
  
“His condition is the same,” Victor said, too automatic to be truthful, and he rubbed one hand over his face. “Yuuri —“ he started, and then door banged open.  
  
“There you are, Jesus Christ," Yuri said. “You’d better get your asses out here or they’re gonna let Chris do all the fucking interviews and probably take your medals home.” He glared over at Victor. “Where the hell have you been, anyway?”  
  
Victor’s performance face was back. His tone was too light, unpleasantly haughty. “Wouldn’t you be the alternate for a medal, if they couldn’t find us?”  
  
“Stay here a few more minutes and find out,” Yuri said. “Katsudon, come on, seriously, I know you’ve barely won shit before but these loser reporters need someone to talk.”  
  
Yuuri looked helplessly between Victor and Yuri. He could tell that Victor actually wanted him to leave with Yuri at the moment, and it made him want to stay with Victor. Leaving was sensible, though. He did, actually, have responsibilities. So did Victor, for that matter. Yuuri narrowed his eyes.  
  
“Am I supposed to go out there without you?” he asked.  
  
“I have every confidence in your ability to handle a few interviews.”  
  
“Hah?” Yuri said. “What, you’re such a baby about your silver you’re not even going to do the interviews?”  
  
Victor shook his head. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m quite happy with my medal,” he said, and Yuuri could see where this was about to go. Yuri probably didn’t need Victor throwing his fourth-place finish in his face any more than he already had.  
  
“We know,” Yuuri said. “It’s just that — you usually come along.”  
  
Victor had turned his fake smile on Yuuri now, and it made him seethe. “You’re very charming to the press.”  
  
“So is my coach,” Yuuri said. “And so is the silver medalist. If I have to go, so do you, Coach.”  
  
Victor huffed a short laugh. “I think they’ll all manage just fine without interviewing me again,” he said. “Go on, Yuuri.”  
  
“Victor,” Yuuri said, annoyed enough to use his full name, “can’t you just —“  
  
“I can’t be everywhere,” Victor said, his voice suddenly sharp. “You have to learn to do these things on your own, Yuuri. You’re a professional and a winner, and this is part of your job. Stop complaining about it and just go do it.” He raised both eyebrows. “That’s some help from your coach.”  
  
Yuuri might have gasped. He wasn’t sure. His eyes teared up, and he took a step backward, enough that his elbow jostled Yuri’s. “Come on,” Yuri said, pulling him by the arm. “You heard the man, you’re a winner. No time for this loser scene. Victor, fuck off,” he said, and pulled Yuuri into the hallway.  
  
It was totally quiet outside. None of the other skaters were around, probably because they were watching the ceremony set up, and it appeared no one had let the press through. Yuuri was grateful, as he needed just a moment to get Victor’s angry voice out of his ears before he met with anyone else.  
  
“What’s his problem?” Yuri grumbled.  
  
It should have been a funny question, coming from the King of Snappy Moodiness, but Yuuri understood the question beneath it. Somehow, Yuri’s anger put his own hurt into perspective. “He’s got a lot of things going on,” he said. “All of the coaching and the competing. Filling in for Yakov and coordinating with his sister.” As he said it, he was already forgiving Victor for snapping. It didn’t make him feel any better about it, though; he was probably doomed to spend at least the next 48 hours wondering what Victor had meant when he said Yuuri needed to do things on his own. The questions were swirling as they walked down the hall, nearing the turn into the main lobby. Was Yuuri too dependent on Victor? Too clingy? Had he finally noticed? Was Victor tired of him?  
  
He shook his head. Be present, he thought, and frowned. “Let’s, I guess, let’s go.” He herded Yuri toward the lobby, where the reporters waited, a faint buzz of sound already echoing down this hall. There would be interviews, then the medal ceremony, and then perhaps more interviews, depending on how the time went. Tomorrow, there would be the press conference, too. It felt like too much; last year, it had felt like a celebration. As they walked, their skates made solid thunks against the ground. There wouldn’t be time to change until after the medals were handed out because they did the ceremony on the ice, and they would still need to skate.  
  
Well. Yuuri still needed to skate. As they drew near the turn in the corridor, just past the locker room, Yuuri realized that while he was obligated to go chat with a few journalists now, Yuri was not. He stopped.  
  
“Let’s go already,” Yuri said, passing him. “We should get this over with.”  
  
“Oh. Yuri, you — you don’t have to,” he said, and felt terrible about saying it. Yuri had probably been avoiding the press since his skate finished. They would certainly want to talk to him — last year’s record-breaking gold-medal winner, reduced to fourth-place finisher behind three much-older skaters — but Yuuri could see no upside for Yuri in those conversations.  
  
“I can handle it,” he said, through clenched teeth.  
  
“I know,” Yuuri said, and he rubbed his forehead. “You’d be better than I would. But — you don’t have to. I mean. I can just say, with everything, with Yakov —“  
  
“Don’t use him as an excuse,” Yuri gritted out.  
  
“No,” Yuuri said, gently, “that’s not what I meant. I can just say, if anyone asks, you needed to see to the others. The team. That they need you. Which is true.” He managed a small smile. “I’ll be fine. Victor’s, ah, right. I’ve done press on my own before, anyway.” That was mostly true. Celestino used to hover, but Victor tended to drop in and out of his interviews. He’d done the post-GPF conference before, but never as the winner. Surely Victor would show up for that. “Escape while you can, is what I’m really saying. I bet Otabek’s been texting.”  
  
Yuri frowned. “He can wait,” he said, but he sounded less angry. “Fine. I’ll check on them, but you should cut yours short, too. And no fucking stuff about Yakov, OK?”  
  
Yuuri managed a smile. “I’ll do my best.”  
  
He did. There were interviews, first with Morooka, who was at least familiar and excited. His enthusiasm helped Yuuri get into the right mood, and he gave a handful of other quick interviews. Yes, he was proud of his performance. Yes, he was grateful for Victor’s help. Yes, he was looking forward to the coming competitions.  
  
“Do you think the absence of his coach has had an effect on Victor’s performance at this competition?”  
  
Yuuri paused. “Ah,” he said, “well. You’ll have to ask Victor, of course. But he is a professional, and his performance today, I think, as always, showed that he gave his very best.”  
  
The reporter grinned. “But his best is silver now, you’re saying?”  
  
Yuuri felt himself blush. “Ah! No, no. No! Victor is still the best skater I’ve ever seen. I -“  
  
“We don’t mean to get you in trouble at home,” the reporter said, still grinning. “Thank you for your time, Yuuri.”  
  
He left that interview flustered and, as usual, uncomfortable with the familiarity of Western reporters. Luckily, an ISU official was waving him toward the rink. They had already set up the podiums, somehow anchored into the ice at the end of a long red carpet. Yuuri paused at the boards, staring out at the open ice and the full stands and feeling, suddenly, a wave of nervousness. That made no sense, of course. They weren’t going to re-total the scores or something. He wouldn’t trip on his way out — probably. His palms felt sweaty, suddenly, and he ducked back, away from rink’s edge, wondering if it was too late to go behind the curtains and try to calm down.  
  
“Steady," Victor said in his ear, one hand suddenly resting on Yuuri’s lower back.  
  
“Vitya,” Yuuri said, voice almost a sigh.  
  
“Ready to go get that gold medal for me?” Victor asked. His tone was light, but his hand was rubbing soothing patterns on Yuuri’s back. “I’ve been so looking forward to it.”  
  
This was apology and comfort in one; it was a promise that they could be just themselves for the next few minutes. “I know,” Yuuri said, and then he leaned against Victor, just his shoulder pressing back against Victor’s chest. Around them, officials put the finishing touches on everything, making camera adjustments and collecting all of the necessary trinkets and trophies. A woman in a strangely severe black puffy jacket came over and gave them strict instructions on the order of their entrance and podium ascension. Victor, who had been through this as a competitor eight times — five golds, two silvers, and a senior debut bronze — nodded attentively, while Yuuri tuned her out. It would be fine now, anyway. Victor was here with him. That was all he needed.  
  
The medal ceremony was a bit anticlimactic. They always were. It was strange — beyond strange — to see Victor standing just below him, but his beaming smile was so true that Yuuri could do nothing but smile right back. After they’d accepted their awards, and after Yuuri had self-consciously mouthed the words to the Japanese anthem, they posed for pictures on the podiums. The crowd lit up when Victor pressed a kiss first to Yuuri’s medal, then to Yuuri’s cheek. That led to another photo of both Christophe and Victor kissing Yuuri’s cheeks, which was surprisingly adorable (if also perhaps the hardest Yuuri had blushed in several months).  
  
After the photos, they skated their victory lap, and Yuuri laughed as Victor handed off his flowers to Chris and then lifted Yuuri, once, in a simple waltz lift; their balance was good from exhibition practice. “Gorgeous,” Victor murmured as Yuuri turned in his arms.  
  
Yuuri smiled and let himself be eased back onto the ice, contentment radiating through him. “You, too,” he said, and kissed his ring again before he waved to the crowd.  
  
Afterwards, they ducked into the locker rooms to gather their skate bags. Victor took a moment to touch up his hair, then looked up at Yuuri in the mirror. “I’m sorry about before.”  
  
Yuuri shrugged, meeting his reflected eyes for just a moment before turning away. He picked up his skate bag, then grabbed Victor’s, too, and offered it to him. The locker room was empty around them, but this still felt too public for deep conversation. “You’re under a lot of pressure. It’s not like I’ve never handled a stressful situation poorly before.” Victor made a noise half like a laugh, half like a sigh, and accepted his bag. Together, they left the locker room, walking into the mostly quiet hall that would lead to the main lobby. Before they left the hallway, Yuuri tugged Victor’s hand, drawing him back. Victor lifted his eyebrow. “Promise me you’ll tell me when you can?”  
  
“I promise,” Victor said, and he raised Yuuri’s hand to his lips.  
  
A camera flashed as soon as they entered the lobby, but Yuuri didn’t see any press around, just a few other skaters and their families. Victor’s arm slid around Yuuri’s waist and led him to one side. “Hi again, Chris.”  
  
“Hello, darlings,” Christophe said. He’d changed back into his usual Swiss-branded tracksuit, the front unzipped halfway despite the chill. The bronze medal was on clear display there, and Yuuri thought he shone a bit, too, with the glee of being on the podium. “Are you all joining us for a late dinner tonight? Phichit and two of the women have something planned.”  
  
Yuuri was surprisingly tempted. Hanging out with the other skaters, Phichit in particular, sounded like just the evening he needed to recharge before the exhibition. He’d spent so much time immersed in the Russian team that he’d barely had time for even the usual brief socializations that these competitions brought. In fact, he hadn’t checked his phone in hours.  
  
Victor squeezed Yuuri close for a moment. “Of course, you should go,” he said, as though Yuuri had spoken his thoughts. “Have a good time. I’ll keep an eye on the others.”  
  
“Aren’t you coming along?” Christophe asked.  
  
Victor frowned. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I should spend some time with my rink mates and make sure Yakov’s room is ready for check out. But don’t let me hold you back! Yuuri deserves a celebration.”  
  
“I don’t —“  
  
“Nonsense,” Victor interrupted, “you’ve won a gold. You’re the reigning World Champion and Grand Prix winner, Yuuri. You won’t have to buy a drink all night!” He winked as he said it, and maybe that was what decided it for Yuuri. The wink — that theatrical gesture — reminded him that Victor wasn’t just tired, didn’t just need to do a quick check in with his rink mates. Victor was hurting. His coach was ill, maybe worse than that, and he’d been thrown into more responsibilities than any other skater currently on the ice. On top of that, he’d just lost the Grand Prix, if silver could be called a loss.  
  
Yuuri slid his own arm around Victor’s back. “Actually, I don’t think I’m up for it tonight, either,” he said. “I’m sorry, Chris.”  
  
Christophe’s eyes narrowed. “All right. Fine. But I’ll expect you to make up for it tomorrow.”  
  
“No promises,” Yuuri said, at the same time Victor said, “Absolutely.” A girl’s squealing voice echoed behind them, closer to the main entrances that they would avoid. Yuuri leaned closer to Victor. “See you tomorrow.”  
  
And then it was just the two of them — well, and a swath of international sports press, but there was no one nearby who needed their attention immediately. Victor turned to Yuuri and stared at him for a moment. “You didn’t want to go out? You’ve barely seen Phichit.”  
  
“I saw him last night," Yuuri said, “and I’ll see him again tomorrow. This is fine, Vitya. It’s what I want.”  
  
His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be searching Yuuri’s face for some sign. “All right,” he said, after a moment, strangely subdued. “You should call your family.”  
  
“Mm. It’s not even dawn there, yet.”  
  
“Your mother will be awake.”  
  
Yuuri nodded, non-committal. “At the hotel.”  
  
They collected the Russian team with a minimum of difficulty and a maximum of fawning over their medals. Mila was threatening to make sure that Yuuri got his own banner in the rink at St. Petersburg when they walked back into the lobby at the hotel. “I’m sure Yakov will approve,” she said. “He likes you, after all.”  
  
Victor tensed. No one else caught it, but Yuuri did. They were standing next to each other, only inches separating them, Victor’s gloved hands occasionally brushing Yuuri’s forearm or elbow. It was nothing, a tension so quickly released it wasn’t even a flinch, but Yuuri knew Victor’s body. He knew Victor.  
  
They’d been sleeping together for slightly more than a year now, in every sense of the word. Victor’s body was familiar in a way that still, sometimes, sent Yuuri into a joyous panic, because he was no less beautiful for it. Yuuri had seen him in every state of undress and, thanks to last summer’s hip scare, condition. He knew how Victor moved when he was happy, when he was aroused, when he hurt, when he was trying to put off conversation, when he was annoyed, all of it.  
  
He’d also adjusted his own body to this knowledge: He expected, now, the curl of Victor’s body around his own at night and the heavy weight of it over his in the morning. Victor’s slender fingers twined thoughtlessly with Yuuri’s when they walked anywhere; his guiding hand was omnipresent at Yuuri’s back, sometimes giving direction, sometimes latching on.  
  
That night, he used his knowledge — his hard-won, unbelievable first-hand expertise — to investigate Victor’s mood. They invited the rest of the team up to their suite for a late-night snack and a quick run-through of expectations for the next day, and Yuuri kept his eyes on Victor. He watched him maintain a consciously open posture although his hands twitched and twined into themselves under the table; he watched Victor sling his arms around Mila and Vadim, voice ebullient even when his movements felt calculated. He watched Victor shoulder Yuri into a corner of the room and talk to him in low tones, his head bent and his Russian rapid-fire. And then, when they’d all left, he watched Victor sit placidly on the end of their bed and look up at him with an expression that he wore, sometimes, between thoughts, a blank waiting face. Then he smiled and said, “Would the champion like any other rewards tonight?”  
  
He knew Victor’s body. He knew Victor. And so he smiled, and leaned back against the dresser so that the long line of his own body was stretched out before Victor, vulnerable and offering and his. “Well, you’re the one with all the gold medal experience,” he said, lowering his eyelids and looking through his lashes. “Maybe you could think of something suitable.”  
  
Victor smiled and reached for him. His hands encircled Yuuri’s waist, and his face pressed briefly into the softness of Yuuri’s stomach. He didn’t suck in a breath; he didn’t move, except to run his fingers through VIctor’s hair.  
  
“Let me take care of you,” Victor murmured, his hands sliding tenderly underneath Yuuri’s T-shirt, fingers skimming lightly over the small of his back.  
  
“Yes,” Yuuri murmured, “please,” and he bent forward, back like the curve of a bow, and kissed Victor. Victor hummed, and Yuuri put his knees on either side of him, climbing into his lap, Victor’s strong arms holding him close. They fell back on to the bed in a messy heap, and then Yuuri was turned and pressed under Victor, their mouths never separating. Heat and want pooled in Yuuri’s chest, spreading throughout his body as Victor pulled off his clothes.  
  
When Victor bent to take Yuuri in his mouth, he moaned, barely restraining himself from thrashing; when Victor slid inside of him, Yuuri arched and begged.  
  
“Only you,” Yuuri said, words falling too easily from him as Victor tenderly, intentionally took him apart. “Oh, god, Vitya, Vitenka, only you, forever, care for me, please.”  
  
“Forever,” Victor gasped, a promise, and it was everything Yuuri had ever needed.  
  
He came down with Victor soothing him, petting his legs as they began to cramp, then cleaning his abdomen. “You’re marvelously flexible," he said, rubbing one of Yuuri's ankles, which had moment ago been stretched up near his own ear, "but I suspect even you will be a little sore tomorrow.” He kept rubbing his leg gently, but he didn’t apologize.  
  
“Mm,” Yuuri agreed. “I landed six perfect quads in competition. I’m allowed.”  
  
“You landed six perfect quads and the silver medalist,” Victor said, grinning. “Quite the day for you.” He walked back to the bathroom, and Yuuri heard the sink run, a splash of water.  
  
When Victor came back, Yuuri took his turn in the bathroom, then emerged to find Victor sitting on the bed, staring at his phone. He frowned and turned it over on the nightstand, not off, before he lay back. Yuuri settled his head on Victor’s chest, Victor’s heart thudding beneath his ear. The relaxation of a few moments before was gone, but the intimacy remained. He felt he could ask, now. “It’s very bad, then?”  
  
“Pretty bad, yes," Victor said.  
  
Yuuri nodded and snuggled closer, one leg over Victor’s, his hand curved around Victor’s ribs. “Why haven’t you said anything?”  
  
“He asked me not to.” His voice was barely a rumble against Yuuri’s hair. “They performed the surgery today. Open heart surgery, a bypass of some kind.”  
  
Maybe it should have been surprising, but Yuuri had known that something was wrong. “Was it successful?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Victor said. “He’s — it’s over. That was the call at the end of your program, to tell me he’d made it through, but, ah. He made it through, but he’s still unconscious. A minute ago, that was Irina, just sending an update that there’s no change.” He took a slow breath, then another. “She would like me to visit again in the morning. She’s on her way back to the hotel for the night, and then she’ll go again early.”  
  
Yuuri closed his eyes. “Do you want to go?”  
  
It took Victor nearly a minute to reply. “No,” he said, very softly. “I hate seeing him like that. I think he hates me seeing him that way. But I need to.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Someone needs to," Victor said, “and I owe him this.”  
  
Yuuri understood duty like this, the kind that came with and from your family. “Do you want me to go with you? I don’t have to be at practice for the exhibition until afternoon, I think."  
  
“No," Victor said, rubbing Yuuri’s back. “I’ll be fine, and you really don’t want to go. I’ll just meet you at the practice tomorrow.” He sighed, then, so deeply that Yuuri’s head dipped at the exhale. “Please, let’s not talk more of this right now.”  
  
“OK,” Yuuri said. He lifted up and kissed Victor, sweet but not meant to lead to anything. “Should we talk about skating?”  
  
“Always,” Victor said. “Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am 99% sure that I got the name "Josef" as Christophe's coach from someone else's story and not from the show. If anyone knows where that came from, let me know, and I will credit and thank!!
> 
> Thank you for the comments so far! This was my favorite chapter to write, so let me know what you think!


	6. Companion Fare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's exhibition day. Also, Phichit! And there's just enough time for a heart-to-heart with Yurio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally get to indulge my Inner Dramatic Exhibition Music Picker. Or something?!?

Twelve hours later, Yuri didn’t show up for lunch.  
  
At first, it was a little funny. They all figured he’d gone for a nap or something, since he’d already admitted he’d stayed up late “kicking ass” in his newest game acquisition. However, neither pounding on the door nor ringing the room phone endlessly did anything to roust him. Calls to his mobile went right to voice mail, and texts were ignored or, perhaps, not received.  
  
Yuuri had already spent the morning trying to hold it together in front of the Russian team. They’d had a successful round of exhibition practices that morning: Yuri had disappeared after his, leaving Yuuri to entertain the juniors. They didn’t have much to do, and Yuuri was worried they were getting restless. He’d taken them all to lunch, then back to the hotel, and after they were in their rooms he’d knocked fruitlessly on Yuri’s door for a few minutes. He was probably fine. Just because Yuuri hadn’t seen him in three going on four hours didn’t really mean anything. Yuuri decided to give Yuri half an hour, maybe an hour, tops; if he hadn’t resurfaced by the time they needed to take the shuttle back the rink for the exhibition itself, Yuuri would call Victor.  
  
Victor had left for the hospital directly after the exhibition finale practice that morning. His face had been grim and pale and honest in the early light of their hotel room, and Yuuri could see now more clearly how much Yakov’s condition was weighing on him. He really didn’t want to run to Victor about Yuri, but there was no one else to bother.  
  
What he really wanted was a bit of quiet ice time, or a chance to dance. Even at exhibition practice in the mostly empty arena, he’d felt over-observed: the tag-along juniors had dogged his every move, too intimidated to cluster around Victor even when he was there. Now, his own reflection in the elevator’s mirrored doors looked wan, his face pinched. He’d made it through the competition, had won the competition, and so it was completely stupid to feel anxious right now. But he felt it clawing at his throat, a phantom tightness when he tried to take a deep breath; his fingers tingled when he clenched his hands together. He hadn’t lost Yuri Plisetsky, not really; Yuri wasn’t his to lose, for one, and Yuuri logically knew that he would turn up somewhere, soon, because he wasn’t going to miss his exhibition. His absence, though, and Victor’s absence, and Yakov’s absence, it was all making him feel very alone, suddenly, very much alone and responsible in ways he wasn’t really equipped to handle.  
  
The elevator released him onto his floor, and Yuuri walked on autopilot back to their suite. It was too quiet inside, the heater’s purr the only noise. He needed to do something, so he started gathering his things. Five Russian skaters (six, if he could find Yuri) would be meeting him at the front door in an hour, so that they could board the shuttle back to the arena in time for the start of the exhibition. Yuuri would need to gather his costume, his skates, and a thicker-than-usual warm-up jacket borrowed from Victor’s collection because they’d be sitting still for so long in the arena to watch the show. He also packed extra protein bars, two loaded charging banks, and an embarrassing number of tissues, just in case anyone needed anything. He’d be perfectly prepared.  
  
Right then, though, he was also perfectly panicking, with a fluttering feeling in his chest. The room around him felt too large, and he backed himself into the hall near the door, then slid down the wall next to the closet. He could just see a pair of Victor’s dress shoes peeking out.  
  
His worries had coalesced into a set of unknowns. Like a drumbeat, since that morning, he’d been wondering, Now what? Now what? Now what? Would they go back to St. Petersburg? What if Yakov had to stay in Marseille? Who would coach Victor? Did Victor even still need a coach? Could they return to Hasetsu? What about Yuri, and Mila, and the rest of Yakov’s skaters? Would Lilia try to step in? Would one of the assistant coaches step up? What if Yakov didn’t recover? How would Victor take it? What if this changed everything? What could Yuuri do to help him?  
  
The answer was probably nothing, but he felt torn up, already, over his inability to help Victor. What kind of a partner was he, anyway? How could Victor even want to —  
  
“S-stop," he said out loud, trying to vocalize the way Yeva recommended. Logically, he knew Victor loved him. Victor wanted to marry him — to elope with him, even. Yuuri rested his head on his knees, slid in his earbuds, and fired up the “Emergency” meditation guide on his phone. While the guide led him through a few breathing exercises, Yuuri tried to think of what else he could do. What would help him right now?  
  
Victor, he thought, but that was useless. Victor was at the hospital; he had enough to worry about without Yuuri’s stupid anxiety trying to chime in. Besides, Victor didn’t exactly make his worries go away, and right now… well, right now, he was probably as likely to make things worse.  
  
Breathe, the app reminded him, and he tried. He let his thoughts flutter, acknowledging his worries but not lingering on them. The exhibition was coming up. He needed to get ready. He’d see so many people there — the Russian team, Christophe, Phichit…  
  
“Oh.” When the meditation session ended, Yuuri didn’t exactly feel better, but he was back to the start of a panicking spiral instead of in the middle of one. That gave him enough presence of mind to tap his phone again.  
  
**Yuuri** : _help I’m losing it_  
**Phichit** _: literally?_  
**Yuuri** _: kind of?_  
**Phichit** _: where r u? if you’re at hotel I’m there in 3 min top_  
  
True to his word, Phichit arrived swiftly, though it took Yuuri a moment to unfold enough to unlock the door. Once inside, instead of trying to pull Yuuri up from the floor, Phichit folded himself into a seated position across from him. “Hey,” he said, and Yuuri nodded. He was clutching his phone in one hand and trying to concentrate on evening out his breathing. Phichit wore casual clothes, but his hair was wet; he smelled like chlorine.  
  
“Were you at the pool?”  
  
“Earlier,” he said. “You didn’t interrupt anything. Don’t worry. I’m glad to see you, actually!” He leaned in, peering at Yuuri as though he’d be able to physically spot his worries. “What’s going on?”  
  
“I lost Yurio,” Yuuri said.  
  
Phichit raised both eyebrows. “Like… he’s been kidnapped again?”  
  
Yuuri shrugged. He hadn’t even thought of that. Otabek wasn’t here this time, so if someone had absconded with Yuri --  
  
“I’m pretty sure he’s OK,” Phichit said. “He updated, like, an hour ago? Something about food.” He scrolled through pictures on his own phone before offering it to Yuuri. The photo was from Yuri’s Instagram, of a scattered collection of paper pastry bags, one slender pale hand clenched around a sweet roll. _Breakfast for non-champions._ The timestamp was thirty-two minutes earlier.  
  
Yuuri pressed his own phone to his forehead, briefly. “What does that even mean?”  
  
“That he found a bakery somewhere, I think,” Phichit said. “There are worse ways to take a loss than carb therapy in the middle of France.”  
  
“Name one,” Yuuri said.  
  
“Wine therapy.”  
  
“Maybe.” Yuuri exhaled and really felt the air rush out. In, then out again. “OK.”  
  
“Is this really about Yuri?”  
  
“Maybe,” Yuuri said. In the background, he heard the shower next door rattle on, and somehow the extra noise was soothing. He stared at his phone until the screen wasn’t blurry, then hesitantly tapped out a message to Victor.  
  
**Yuuri** : _Would you try texting Yurio? Can’t find him._  
  
“Oh, Yuuri! Are these wedding jitters?” Phichit asked, his grin suddenly broad and brilliant.  
  
Yuuri’s head snapped up automatically. “What?”  
  
“I’m so honored!”  
  
“Phichit!”  
  
“Wait, are you worried about the wedding night?” He wagged both of his eyebrows, and Yuuri felt his face light up with heat. “It’s OK! Many couples choose to wait, though I’m honestly surprised after a year that —“  
  
“Oh my god! No! I mean, no, I’m not — that is, we didn’t, we weren’t waiting, oh god,” Yuuri said, dropping his head into his hands for completely new reasons.  
  
He heard Phichit laughing, felt him nudge his ankle with one foot.  
  
“Hey, of course I know that. I’m teasing you. I don’t think anyone’s been in doubt about the nature of your relationship. I mean, if Eros wasn’t enough, then that exhibition last year…” Yuuri looked up and watched Phichit fan himself. “Also, Victor’s Instagram is basically like a sex shrine to you.”  
  
“What?!?”  
  
“Ohhhkay, oh no, don’t hyperventilate!” Phichit said, but he was still laughing and Yuuri was close to it. “I just meant there’s only so many mid-afternoon selfies with matching bed hair that a guy can post before it’s pretty obvious what you’ve been up to.”  
  
“Why is this my life?” Yuuri said, groaning.  
  
Phichit snorted. “Because you’re the luckiest _kratuk_ in the world, I think?”  
  
Yuuri looked up then, saw Phichit’s gentle smile. “Fair enough,” he said.  
  
“But if you do have any questions, any at all, I consider it my job as still-best-man to answer them as honestly as a Twitter poll will allow.”  
  
“Worst man," Yuuri corrected. His phone buzzed under his fingers, and he turned it over to read the new message.  
  
**Victor** : _He’s with Chris._  
  
“Oh,” he said, sighing, a tendril of tension loosening. He showed the message to Phichit, who nodded. “What is he doing with Chris?”  
  
“Practice, maybe? His Lutz was…” Phichit waved his hand in a so-so motion, and Yuuri nodded. It seemed out of character for Yuri to admit weakness to anyone, but he would do just about anything to improve. “Honestly, we should worry more about innocent bystanders than about Yuri’s safety when he escapes,” Phichit said, and Yuuri huffed a laugh, then frowned as Phichit took a snapshot of him.  
  
“Hey,” he started, considering whining about the photo, but then he shook his head. “Thank you.”  
  
“No problem,” Phichit said. He tapped on his phone as he spoke. “I wanted to check in with you yesterday to see how you were holding up, but it looked like your little brood was taking most of your time.” He set the phone down, then planted his elbows on his knees and cradled his chin in his hands. “So, gold medalist, how arrrre you?”  
  
When he sighed, Yuuri felt some hard tension in his chest twist. “I don’t know,” he said. He’d started to get a familiar empty, achey feeling behind his eyes. “I’m sorry I dragged you all the way up here. I know, I mean, you’re right. I have — it’s everything I’ve ever wanted?”  
  
“Mm,” Phichit said. “Believe it or not, I know how that can actually feel pretty stressful.”  
  
Yuuri blinked. “Oh? Um, wait — how are you?”  
  
Phichit laughed. “Not what I meant, but I’m fine. I — I wish I’d done a little better yesterday, I guess.” He shrugged.  
  
“You had a clean skate!” Yuuri said. “It was beautiful. Your quad toe has such amazing distance.”  
  
He shrugged again, just one shoulder. “I want to add the Lutz and maybe the salchow, like I told you? But Celestino still says they’re not consistent enough.” He looked back at his phone.  
  
Victor’s chiding criticisms of Celestino’s style rang in Yuuri’s head. “Are you unhappy with him?”  
  
Phichit shook his head, but he didn’t look up. “No. I mean, not really? He’s right, I guess, but it’s kind of hard to train all year and only move up one place because my TES is never gonna match yours or Victor’s at this rate. And Seung Gil’s Cup of China routine had a higher TES, too, so if he ever figures out expression —“  
  
“Not in his programming,” Yuuri said, and Phichit cracked a small smile.  
  
“Yeah, maybe.” Phichit rocked forward, suddenly, up on to his knees. “OK if I get up? I’m still feeling yesterday.”  
  
“Oh, yes,” Yuuri said, and then picked himself up, too. His thighs ached, and the bottoms of his feet sent their usual protest as he limped toward the small table in the corner. At least he could breathe, he thought, rubbing a hand though his hair.  
  
Phichit paced to the window and let out a low whistle, grinning back at Yuuri. “Fancy! A balcony and everything!”  
  
“Not so great when it’s so cold, though. I think Victor would breakfast out there if he thought of it.”  
  
“Russians are crazy,” Phichit said, firmly, and Yuuri nodded.  
  
“Can confirm.” He opened the mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, then offered one to Phichit. “Have you had lunch?”  
  
“Oh my gosh, universal dad!” Phichit grinned. “I had a snack earlier, but — what do you have?”  
  
“Nuts?” Yuuri offered, and Phichit took a sleeve of almonds and returned to the window. “Are you, ah. Are you going to the exhibition today?”  
  
“Of course! I want to see what you have up your sleeve, after all,” he said, but this time, he turned his smile toward the window. Yuuri had the sense he was trying to hide something: disappointment, maybe? Jealously?  
  
Watching him, Yuuri thought of himself, in that last year in Detroit, preparing for his first-ever Grand Prix. He’d worked on his quad toeloop and salchow relentlessly, and in the final, he’d crashed on the first and been told not to even try the second. By Nationals, he’d been eating ice on triples instead of quads at Celestino’s advice. It was one major difference between his two coaches: Celestino saw Yuuri fall and thought it happened because the program was too hard, that he needed easier elements to help build confidence. Victor saw the same thing and recognized that Yuuri responded best to being challenged.  
  
“Do you want to come to St. Petersburg this summer?” he asked, then flinched in surprise at his own offer.  
  
“What?”  
  
For once, he’d managed to genuinely surprise Phichit. Yuuri wished he’d thought to have his phone ready. “I mean. I know you’ve probably got plans, but. We could work together again? And maybe, ah, if you went back in the fall with new jumps, you know —“  
  
Now Phichit turned fully toward him. “You’d teach me your quads?”  
  
Yuuri shrugged, fiddling with the paper wrapper on his water bottle. “Or Victor would, I think. I, ah. I picked up the salchow from Yurio. There would be plenty of skaters around. It’s a big rink!”  
  
Phichit grinned. “I would like to see that! But what about the wedding?”  
  
“Eh, we aren’t going to Hasetsu until July,” he said, which he hoped was true. “Plenty of time.”  
  
Somehow, Yuuri’s anxiety attack turned into a short travel planning session. It was the best possible outcome, he decided, as Phichit sat at their small table and began flipping between his calendar and Google. Yuuri had Nationals at the end of December, as did Victor, but Phichit did not; Thailand didn’t field enough skaters to hold qualifiers like that yet. After that, the entire month of January was open for Yuuri, waiting for 4CC in mid-February, though Victor would have Euros to worry about before then.  
  
“Will you go to the Asian Winter Games?” Phichit asked.  
  
“Not sure,” Yuuri said. He wanted to represent Japan, if asked, but it was always right on the heels of Four Continents. “You?”  
  
“Have to,” Phichit said. “Remember? I am Thai skating.”  
  
“You are! They’re lucky to have you.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
After that, it was the Worlds at the end of March, and then the summer stretched before them, open and inviting.  
  
“You could come in June,” Yuuri said, and Phichit nodded.  
  
“Already found tickets," he said. “Though I guess I should clear it with my family. And, ah, Ciao Ciao. But, hey, actually, let me look up one more thing.”  
  
“OK?”  
  
While he typed furiously, Yuuri looked around. His own bag was packed for the exhibition, but should he put together Victor’s things? Actually, no, he remembered, Victor probably had everything with him already, except his costume. His phone was quiet under his fingers, and he hoped that was a good sign. The Russian team would be meeting up in a half hour. The juniors didn’t skate in the exhibition, but as silver medalist, Mila had been invited. He hoped Christophe would return Yuri in time.  
  
“So, have you looked up weddings in Russia at all?” Phichit asked.  
  
“Ah, not really,” Yuuri said, which was nearly true. He had researched them, once, when he was about 12 and the kids around him had been making outlandish fantasy plans. Probably those memories did not apply to his actual situation, though.  
  
“Well, so, it looks like, you have to wait about a month before you can actually get married, and you might have to travel to Moscow first.”  
  
Of course it wouldn’t be so simple, Yuuri thought. Really, despite Victor’s confidence, it was rarely so easy as just wishing for something. Then again, Victor had worked some impressive magic before, and Yuuri had begun to understand that some systems in Russia worked fastest through not-exactly legal means. “Ah. Well. That’s disappointing,” he said, and shrugged.  
  
“Unless Victor’s already started the paperwork?”  
  
“Not that I know of,” Yuuri said, then sighed, “though I guess that’s not out of the realm of possibility.”  
  
“Nothing really is with him, is it?” That was so true it didn’t need a response. “So you guys, it will probably be mid-January, right? Or do you think you’ll wait until after Four Continents?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Yuuri admitted. Victor had seemed so adamant about getting this done right away. Probably, though, once they were back in St. Petersburg, once Yakov was feeling better, he would think waiting was more reasonable. He’d be worrying about Euros after Nationals, anyway.  
  
Phichit interrupted his worrying. “Do you want me to come out for that?”  
  
“What? No, you’ll have practice.”  
  
Phichit rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter how I do at 4C’s, though, not really. I’ll be sent to Worlds regardless since I qualified for this. And Ciao Ciao has to travel for Euros…” He shrugged. “Think about it. After you find out whether Victor has done the paperwork.”  
  
So Yuuri nodded, feeling touched by the offer. In truth, it would be nice to have a friend there. Victor knew everyone in St. Petersburg. He wasn’t particularly close with most of the people at the rink, but they all knew each other well, at least. Yuuri just had Victor, and Makkachin, and Yuri and Mila.  
  
As though thinking his name summoned him, the door to the suite rattled, then clicked as the locked turned. Victor walked in, muttering in Russian over his phone until he looked up and saw them.  
  
He said a quick goodbye to whoever he was muttering at. “Ah, Yuuri,” he said, his name a sigh of relief, “and Phichit, hello!”  
  
“Hey, Victor,” Phichit said. “Sorry, I’m raiding your minibar and monopolizing your fiancé.”  
  
Victor grinned. “Take all the snacks, leave all the Yuuri, and we’ll be fine.”  
  
“Deal.” Phichit actually did reach over and swipe a plastic sleeve of trail mix. “I should go shower. See you at the show, boys! Don’t disappoint me.”  
  
“Thanks,” Yuuri said, squeezing his shoulder as he walked past. “For everything.” Phichit nodded, tousling his hair, and then showed himself out.  
  
Victor raised an eyebrow. “Just hanging out?”  
  
“I, ah.” Yuuri shrugged. Victor could probably read it on his face, by now. “When I couldn’t find Yuri, I texted Phichit.”  
  
“Worried?” Yuuri shrugged again. “I’m sorry. I only knew because I ran into them the lobby on my way out.” He frowned. “I, ah. He wanted to go along, to see Yakov again, and I brushed him off. Chris was nearby anyway and saved me, drew Yuri off to get lunch or something. I don’t think he knew what he was doing — probably thought I was headed for a tryst with you or something.”  
  
“If only,” Yuuri said.  
  
The tiniest ghost of a smile passed over Victor’s face before fading, abruptly, back to worry. “Yuri is going to be furious when he finds out the truth,” Victor said. He frowned, then sat on the couch, slowly, as though it hurt to do so. It probably did; Yuuri thought Victor hadn’t warmed up or cooled down appropriately during the competition or taken the time to do so that morning. His face scrunched briefly, as though he’d reviewed a memory and hated it. “I just wanted to make sure he wouldn’t follow me.”  
  
Yuuri shifted over to sit beside him, tangling his hand with Victor’s. “What happened at the hospital?”  
  
Victor looked out toward the windows, his fingers tightening around Yuuri’s. “Yakov was only just waking up. He’s been on heavy pain medications, and they’ve decided to keep him in the serious care unit for another day.” He spoke softly, face half-turned, and his accent was thicker than usual. Yuuri leaned in to hear him, one hand steady against Victor’s knee. “He is — there are many machines. Many tubes, wires. It is not, ah, comforting to see him. Not for me, and it definitely would not be for Yurio.”  
  
Yuuri leaned against him. He smelled like his usual self, deodorant and expensive shampoo, and over that coffee and cold sweat. “Are you all right?”  
  
Victor shrugged, gently. “He wasn’t sure of who I was.”  
  
“Oh, no,” Yuuri said, but Victor held up a hand to stop him.  
  
“I think he recognized me at the end. The doctor says it’s normal, it’s part of the anesthesia.” Victor’s hand slid up to rest over Yuuri’s wrist, his fingers against Yuuri’s palm. “I’m glad Yuri didn’t go along, but I — I was pretty sharp. Dismissive. I should have been better with him.”  
  
Yuuri turned, his knee bumping against Victor’s thigh. He ran one thumb over the gray smudges under Victor’s eye. “You’re doing everything, more than you can. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
Victor nodded. He turned and kissed the inside of Yuuri’s wrist, gently. “Thank you.”  
  
The heater hummed to life against the wall, and Yuuri leaned in close, listened to the quick in-out of Victor’s breath. Even that pattern seemed too rapid, troubled. “What can I do?”  
  
“Stay by me,” Victor said, his smile now small but trying, small but genuine. Small, but lovely. “That’s all I’ll ever ask.”

* * *

  
They made it to the arena just in time to watch the opening production of the exhibition, because Victor herded his rink mates to the bus with an efficiency that Yuuri envied. Once there, he found a set of empty bleachers for them to stake out that had a decent view and was off-limits to the general public. Victor extracted promises from each of the junior skaters not to leave the immediate area without permission, then handed everyone enough spending money to make sure they could do nothing but blow their diets in the next few hours. After that, he took Mila down to warm up. She would skate her piece last in the first half, but she’d barely ever practiced it, so they were going to do a skate-free run-through with their remaining time.  
  
In the flurry of motion, Yuuri saw both his usual Victor — commanding, multitasking, energetic — and a Victor so worried that he needed to be moving, all the time. Either way, stage-managing seemed to calm him, so Yuuri sat back and let it happen. He didn’t have to prepare until after the intermission, since his skate would be last, which left him plenty of time to watch the rest of the show.  
  
Katya and Ilya had gone to speak with friends — a juniors pair that had moved up this season — and Nathalie and Vadim were engaged with their phones. Yuri was, too, but that didn’t stop Yuuri from taking a seat next to him. He’d held himself apart from the others at the very end of the next row up, a yawning space stretching between him and Vadim.  
  
“What?” Yuri said.  
  
“Are you all right?” Yuuri asked.  
  
“I was better a few minutes ago when I had this row to myself, pig.”  
  
Yuuri nodded. He leaned forward and looked to see who was waiting or just coming off of the ice, surprised to recognize most of them: Mila, Sara Crispino, a Ukrainian skater that Mila considered a friend, a senior pair from Japan that had been together long enough that Yuuri could remember them from juniors, and a few familiar coaches. He waved when one of the Japanese skaters waved back. They’d see one another at Worlds. He realized, with a start, that he already expected to see several of them at the Olympics.  
  
He watched the skaters stretch in the warm-up area, and he waited. Yuri was still playing with his phone, but his sighs had become more pointed, more conscious. The American skater who’d placed fourth, a crowd favorite, did a triple-triple combo timed expertly to her 1950s rock music, and then stumbled, skidding briefly on her behind, and laughed. Yuri clucked his tongue.  
  
“She could beat Mila if she’d pay attention,” he said.  
  
Yuuri watched her fly around the rink, her face glowing in a broad grin. “Who is it?”  
  
“I don’t know, Heather something? She won Rostelecom.” He offered this like the local tie was necessary to justify his interest in her skating. “She has a bright yellow costume with a parrot on it for the SP.”  
  
That required photos. Yuuri found a video of her program not long after, and he and Yuri watched it together. She had high jumps, big falls, and, yes, a parrot embroidered in multi-color beads over her crayon-yellow gown. “Expressive,” Yuuri said, and Yuri snorted.  
  
Below, on the ice, a pair skate began to a bizarrely loud American classic rock song. Yuuri watched half-heartedly.  
  
“I know Victor sent you to check on me,” Yuri said, staring down at the ice.  
  
Yuuri shook his head. “He didn’t.”  
  
Yuri shrugged, clearly not believing this. “I’m fine.”  
  
“I know,” Yuuri said. “But — if you weren’t? That would be OK, too.”  
  
“Just because you’re a delicate emotional flower doesn’t mean the rest of us are,” he snapped. “I’m not going to lose it just because Yakov is — he might be — is —“  
  
Yuuri sat back, just enough that his shoulder bumped against Yuri’s. “I know," he said, again, more softly.  
  
The silence stretched between them, obvious even with the blaring music from below. Yuuri had started learning more about pair skating thanks to Victor, who had enormous ambition for the exhibitions they might do someday, but he still watched it uneasily, never sure of which skater deserved his attention most.  
  
“What do you know about Christophe’s coach?” Yuri asked, voice low.  
  
“Hm? Josef?” Yuuri blinked, surprised. “He’s been with Chris since Juniors, as far as I know.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to remember what else he knew. “Ah, and he just took on a Canadian woman, right?” Yuri nodded, one sharp jerk of his head. “Why?”  
  
Yuri folded his hands over his phone, but Yuuri could see the ways the knuckles paled. “Don’t tell Victor any of this. OK?”  
  
It took a second, but Yuuri nodded. “All right.”  
  
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said, a mumble that Yuuri probably wasn’t meant to understand. “I talked with Chris after Rostelecom. I fell on the Lutz then, too, remember?”  
  
Yuuri did, but he wasn’t sure he should say so. That fall had been spectacular, the kind of face-first collision that sometimes halted a program altogether. Yuri had made it through, obviously rattled. Afterwards, Victor had murmured that his high score — just enough points to guarantee his podium spot — was a mark of favoritism from the judges.  
  
“I was — I am — fuck, I don’t know,” Yuri said, and he ducked his head into his hands, forehead resting on his phone. His shoulders nearly vibrated with tension.  
  
“You’re thinking of switching coaches,” Yuuri said, voice barely a whisper. He turned to face Yuri more directly. “Really?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Yuri said. “I just, we said, he said we could talk. It doesn’t hurt to talk, right? And —“  
  
“Oh no!” Vadim said, sitting up straight and staring down at the ice. Yuuri was yanked back to the reality of the pair skate below them, where the man had just fallen executing a side-by-side jump. It wasn’t a surprise, really; he had terrible jumping technique. They were the local team, invited by the French, so the crowd just cheered more loudly.  
  
Yuuri glanced at Yuri, but he could see the moment was gone. “Swear you won’t say anything. To anyone. Including Victor.”  
  
“Yes, all right,” Yuuri said, not completely sure why he agreed but knowing, also, that it was necessary. Victor would be — well, he couldn’t predict what Victor would think about this.  
  
The pair skaters completed a death spiral, and the crowd oo’ed and cheered. Yuuri couldn’t imagine the strength and trust necessary for that spin. His head ached just watching it.  
  
“Did he tell you he told me off in the lobby?”  
  
“Victor? Ah, sort of,” Yuuri said.  
  
Yuri snorted. “He’s not telling us something about Yakov, and he thinks he’s so fucking sneaky.” The pair skaters sailed into side-by-side catch-foot spins, to overzealous applause. Yuuri loved the forgiveness of an exhibition crowd.  
  
“He’s been stressed,” Yuuri admitted. “It’s hard handling Yakov’s business.”  
  
Yuri made a sharp, almost growl-like noise. “Where the fuck is Lilia?”  
  
Yuuri understood he wasn’t expected to have an answer to that question. “Victor mentioned they were, ah, together in the past, for a long time, I take it?”  
  
“They were married for ten years,” Yuri said. “She choreographed and he coached and they sent 15 skaters to three Olympics before they split up.” When Yuuri gave him a curious look, he flushed and continued. “I lived there last season, you know. She had Yakov and I move in with her while I trained.”  
  
Speaking of things that gave him a headache just thinking about it… “That sounds intense.”  
  
Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Who do you live with, again?”  
  
“If your relationship with Lilia is anything like mine with Victor, we should be having a much different conversation," Yuuri said, and Yuri made a face of such disgust that Yuuri laughed.  
  
“You’re so gross,” he said, crossing his arms over his drawn-up knees. He glanced at his phone and snorted. “And you should call Yuuko so she stops freaking out at me about your stupid win or whatever.” He stood up and immediately slouched. “I’m going to warm up. You better be down there when I start.”  
  
Yuuri agreed and waved him off. The crowd began to cheer for the pair skaters, and Yuuri pulled out his phone. Between each of the next three performances, he dove into text message triage. Yuuko wanted to know if he’d be back before or after All-Japan and whether he’d need ice time; Minako had opinions on his apparent desire to throw PCS out in favor of becoming a “jumping dervish.” His sister had sent an ominous photo of their father toasting Yuuri’s medal with an enormous bottle of sake, captioned with a :/ face, and then, when Yuuri replied with two rows of exclamation points, she’d sent another photo of his mother wiping a tear from her eye.  
  
He hadn’t thought much about returning to Hasetsu until after Worlds. Yes, he’d be back in Japan for Nationals, but that was still hours from home, a plane flight or very long train ride and a day of travel that he didn’t want to make.  
  
But maybe he should make the trip. He could afford the time after Nationals, if Yuuko would give him practice spots at Ice Castle. Now, he could even afford the ticket, and not just because Victor had handed him copies of all of his credit cards. Winning the Grand Prix came with a tidy check. Beyond that, Yuuri had met with Victor’s agent twice since moving to Russia, and both times, he’d walked away with new sponsorship deals that made the prize money at the events look like a starter course. Yuuri couldn’t drive, but they already had him signed up to sell cars and tires.  
  
He’d talk with Victor, he told Mari, who hadn’t really asked. Maybe he could visit. There was more than a month between Nationals and Four Continents. He’d think about it, about visiting home and having Phichit in St. Petersburg, about all the friends and family he could gather if he needed them.  
  
But right then, he had to keep his mind on nearby friends. The ISU had asked Yuri to perform his exhibition skate, which Yuuri privately found surprising given that so few of them had seemed to enjoy his program from the year before. That one, he’d thrown together in less than a day, with Otabek’s help, and the videos from it were still circling the Internet. As Phichit had told Yuuri more than once, the ISU had YouTube, too; they watched what got popular, and Yuri Plisetsky at least never failed to surprise.  
  
He was scheduled to kick off the second block of the exhibition with a piece he and Victor had worked on at the end of the summer, a heavy-metal Russian song that, to Yuuri, sounded like it should be the soundtrack to the “before” part of a commercial for headache medication. Yuri liked it, though, and Victor swore the lyrics were edgy but appropriate, and they’d both clearly had fun working on the piece.  
  
So less than an hour after hearing that Yuri had been considering changing coaches, Yuuri stood at rinkside, listening to the growl and clang blasted over enormous arena speakers, and watched Yuri spin and leap and clap and basically bask in the audience’s attention. After four minutes of ear-ringing metal, he froze in one final, snarling pose.  
  
“Mee-ow,” Christophe said, next to him, and Yuuri laughed.  
  
“Kitten’s growing up,” Victor murmured, and they all cheered as Yuri skated off.  
  
“Fuck you all," he said, wiping his face, but Yuuri thought he saw a little smile.  
  
“Wonderful, Yura,” Victor said, and the smile stayed as he nodded.  
  
A few of Yuri’s fans were begging for photos, and he obliged with a growl and a grimace that was likely exactly what they’d wanted. Yuuri watched him instead of the next skater, glad to see he looked like he was genuinely pleased after that performance.  
  
“Are you stalking me?” Yuri asked.  
  
Yuuri nodded. “Completely. Help me warm up?”  
  
They didn’t talk about the coaching question then. Yuri braced his feet and let Yuuri use him to balance as he stretched one leg, then the other. Then he sat to help with shoulders and biceps and the long, sore muscles of his back. They’d done these stretches together in St. Petersburg, when Victor was training with Yakov and they were both waiting on time with their coach. Yuri was more flexible than Yuuri in some ways, but even with his extra height he didn’t have the power Yuuri did, the heft of honest, honed muscle.  
  
And really, Yuuri found Yuri’s presence calming. It was bizarre to think it, but there it was. Yuri reminded him of Mari in many ways. His sister’s love had always been wrapped in a protective, abrasive shell, a kind of loyalty that declared itself when he’d needed someone to fight for him. Yuri was so much the same that Yuuri still found it hilarious that he and Mari had struck up a texting friendship.  
  
“What are you even going to do out there? Tell me you don’t have quads in your fucking exhibition.”  
  
“I could tell you that,” Yuuri said, standing and stretching one last, long time, “but I can’t promise it would be true.”  
  
“He’s rubbing off on you,” Yuri muttered. “You’re starting to even sound like him. Fuck, soon you’ll have long hair and an ego out to the curb.” Yuuri raised an eyebrow, and Yuri rolled his eyes.  
  
Behind them, another song cut abruptly at the end and the crowd cheered. That meant it was nearly time. “Thanks, Yurio,” Yuuri said.  
  
“Don’t do anything embarrassing,” Yuri said, then walked toward the locker rooms.  
  
Yuuri turned back to the ice, pushing through the curtains draped to offer a little privacy in the warm-up area. The stadium was mostly dark, to help the spotlight stand out, but it was easy enough to see the few people clustered still at the boards. Among those, it was easier, still, to spot Victor’s silvery hair and white warm-up jacket, and that’s where he headed.  
  
Christophe was next to him, still. He had already skated in the first half of the exhibition, a fun and flirty number that had pulled the audience right into the palm of his hand. Yuuri liked exhibitions like that but had never really done one; all of his past exhibitions had been chances to show off lyrical, expressive skating without the pressures of jumps. Last year’s work with Victor had probably been the most technically difficult exhibition he’d ever done — well, until that year.  
  
Sara Crispino took the ice, and her soft music began to play. She’d be followed by the gold medalist in pairs, and then it would be Victor’s turn.  
  
“These don’t look like your Stammi Vicino get ups,” Christophe said, poking Yuuri in the thigh of his white-and-silver costume. He jumped, grabbing Victor’s arm to steady himself. “Another surprise, gentlemen?”  
  
Victor grinned. “Wait and find out, Chris.”  
  
They had both skated in exhibitions already this year: Yuuri after Skate America and NHK, Victor after Skate Canada and Cup of China. They’d both recycled old programs for their solo exhibitions, but Yuuri had joined Victor on the ice for Stammi Vicino after Skate Canada, after the organizers had strongly hinted that was what they expected (since Yuuri was there, anyway, cheering him on).  
  
Tonight, though, they had something new to share. Victor had fallen head-over-heels for a poppy American dance tune over the summer, which had resulted in loops of the artist’s music playing around their house for weeks. From that, they’d started to dance out routines on the living room floor before moving them into the studio space at the rink. By the end of last month, they’d been skating a pair program on ice during stolen evening moments.  
  
And now, thanks to special permission from the ISU (who probably desperately wanted the positive press), they would perform it together at the end of the exhibition — but no one knew that, not yet. The program just said that Victor would skate second-to-last, followed by Yuuri. Even in practice that morning, they’d gone separately, to separate songs by the same artist. No one knew what they really had in store yet.  
  
While they waited, Christophe chatted with Victor and Yuuri watched them. He wondered how much Christophe knew about Yuri’s consideration of his coach. In all likelihood, he knew most of it, or at least that it was happening. It sounded like he’d been the one to put them in touch, and Christophe and Josef were close.  
  
“Yuuri, you look so serious,” Christophe said. “Do I need to repeat my performance to cheer you up?”  
  
Of course, Yuuri couldn’t ask him, not with Victor right there. “Ah, no thanks,” he said. “I’m not sure that’s the right mindset for my piece.”  
  
Victor laughed. “That was the kindest turn-down I’ve ever heard, and I hope you’ll never demonstrate on me. Are you doing the same pieces for Euros, Chris?”  
  
Victor diverted the conversation away, probably thinking Yuuri was nervous about their upcoming performance. Really, his mind was still reeling about Yuri’s possible plans. Skaters did switch coaches, of course. Nearly everyone he knew had skated with more than one coach over his career. Yuuri had worked with a Japanese coach for most of his juniors career, then moved to Celestino before Victor; Phichit had worked with a different coach in America before going to Detroit.  
  
Yakov’s Russian team, however, were the exceptions. Victor had been with Yakov since childhood. Most of his other skaters had worked their way up from novice to junior to senior under his tutelage. Yuuri could think of only a handful of skaters that had ever worked with Yakov who hadn’t finished their careers with him, and none of them were top-level senior skaters. Not like last year’s GPF champion.  
  
“All right?” Victor whispered, sliding an arm around his waist. He wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore.  
  
Yuuri nodded. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed while he’d been thinking about what Yuri had said. “You?”  
  
“Very good,” Victor said, and winked. “See you soon, right?”  
  
Yuuri smiled back and kissed his cheek, then let Victor pull away and step toward the edge of the rink. The announcer called his name, and a spotlight flared as he skated onto to ice.  
  
He wore all black: black pants and an open collar black button-down. So hot, Yuuri thought, and the crowd echoed with whistles from those who clearly agreed. Yuuri tried to school his features, knowing a camera must be pointed toward him on the sidelines. At least it was dark enough that hardly anyone in the stadium would be able to see him.  
  
The music started with a few plaintive plinks of a piano over a synthesized hum, and Victor’s blades sketched the same rhythm onto the ice. He skated for about two minutes, the first verse and chorus of Sia’s “Unstoppable,” and to Yuuri he was this song: he twirled and leapt, landing the quad flip lean and perfect and exact, then whirling immediately into a sit-spin that could probably slice the very molecules in the air with its speed. When he stood, still spinning, the singer promised, “I’m unstoppable today,” and Victor flung up his arms in a victory V only a second before the lights cut out completely.  
  
That was Yuuri’s cue.  
  
He found his way across the ice by luck and memory, until he reached Victor. They curled around each other, Yuuri’s leg bent forward, Victor’s head leaned over his. When the spotlight came back on, where there had been one, now there were two, a intimately tangled yin-yang of black against white, Victor balancing Yuuri and vice-versa.  
  
There was a collective gasp, like a breath caught by a thousand fans, and then: cheers.  
  
“I think they like it,” Victor said, grinning against Yuuri’s forehead.  
  
“You were beautiful,” Yuuri agreed.  
  
“You’ll be even better.”  
  
Yuuri’s music was by the same artist, and it was the lyrics that had convinced Victor that this had to be his song. “It’s true," Victor had tried to convince him, listening to the singer call, “Oh I, I’ve got stamina.” Yuuri had nearly sprained his eyes by rolling them because the chorus had the same singer insisting she was “the greatest alive!” But Victor had been relentless. “All right, think of it as aspirational,” he’d said, instead. “Don’t make me get Yeva involved!”  
  
“Therapy doesn’t work that way,” Yuuri had insisted, but he’d listened to the music as asked. Eventually, he’d found a way into it: Aspiration didn’t work for him, but putting on a character, well, that did.  
  
So Victor had designed for him, for them, an exhibition that started with a pantomime. When the music started, he launched himself back from Victor and then snapped back to him, like a puppet caught on a rubber-band string. “Uh-oh! Running out of breath but I, oh I, I’ve got stamina,” the singer promised, and that was Yuuri. Every line about stamina was him; every exhortation breathed about not giving up, that was him, too.  
  
The play here was their lives: Victor played a coach, the coach, urging Yuuri on when the music repeated, “Don’t give up, don’t give up.” That was Yuuri, too: he could channel all the determination he’d felt, as Victor’s fan and then protege, into those moves. It was barely acting.  
  
What was acting was the moment after that, when the student finally surprised and surpassed the master. The chorus hit, and Yuuri cantilevered across the rink to the singer promising, “I’m free to be the greatest here tonight.” In the play, he was himself; in his mind, he was Victor. Victor, the greatest. Victor, who didn’t give up. His beautiful Victor, standing in the center of the rink like an anchor, just for him.  
  
Then, as planned, Yuuri landed a quad flip, perfectly, the same entry and exit and spin that Victor had done in his piece a moment before. As soon as he rose from his spin, he took Victor’s hand, and the play was abandoned in favor of skating together. They did side-by-side triple axels as the music roared into its final minute, then ended the skate with Victor lifting him across the ice while the crowd roared and the singer chanted, “The greatest! The greatest, alive!” over a chorus of “don’t give up, oh no no no.” When Victor set him down, finally, breathless, he saw Victor’s face pink from effort and glowing with a grin. Yuuri laughed and clung on to him. His joy felt overwhelming and pure, and he saw it reflected back in Victor’s open, admiring face.  
  
“I can’t wait to marry you,” Victor said, cupping Yuuri’s face in his hands, and he kissed him, right there in front of everyone, on center ice, with plushes and presents raining down.  
  
“I love you,” Yuuri murmured against his mouth. “So much.”  
  
They both laughed, again, as the announcer said their names and reminded everyone that Yuuri was the new GPF men’s champion. Then they skated off the ice together, toward the nearly empty boards. Coaches didn’t always wait at the sidelines after an exhibition, but Yakov had often been present, and Yuuri thought he felt Victor sigh, slightly, as they neared the edge of the rink. Mila was waiting there, grinning ear-to-ear. “If that doesn’t get Yakov up and out of bed, nothing will,” she said, and Yuuri knew he wasn’t imagining the way Victor tensed at that. Still, he managed a broad grin for a nearby camera, and Yuuri followed suit before sliding on his blade guards.  
  
Yuuri was exhausted, but they weren’t quite done. Not yet. The finale required everyone to go back on the ice. They’d rehearsed it that morning for the first and only time. Yuuri found this part of the exhibition embarrassing but also, often, fun: it was a chance for every performer to do a last show-off move and get a final cheer from the crowd. Victor did his quad flip; Yuuri did a triple Axel. When the show wound down, and the dangerous but festive confetti had fallen, Victor lifted him again, grinning, and Yuuri thought he heard a few cheers behind them. He definitely heard Christophe whistle.  
  
Even then, there was still the final press conference. The women had endured one late the night before — so late, in fact, that Mila had opted to skip it. Victor and Yuuri had no such excuse, unfortunately, though Yuuri was happy to take his time getting back into his Japan tracksuit.  
  
“Don’t stall,” Victor said.  
  
Yuuri shrugged. “This is how long it takes me.”  
  
“The sooner we get there, the sooner it’s over.”  
  
Yuuri almost laughed. “You know that’s not how it works at all.”  
  
One of the Russian-language media outlets caught them before they made it across the lobby, and Yuuri surrendered Victor to their questions. As he continued across the lobby toward the conference room where the press meeting was held, he felt a wave of exhaustion, and he pulled his jacket more tightly around him. It had been a day, as Phichit would say, or maybe a week. He’d been through not only his own performances but at the sidelines for so many others. His limbs felt heavy, and his feet ached. The buoyant joy of the exhibition performances had evaporated.  
  
“All hail the new champion,” Christophe said, sidling up to him in the lobby. “Where’s Victor?”  
  
Yuuri pointed behind him. “They caught him. If we’re lucky, he’ll keep them busy long enough for us to make a clean escape.”  
  
Christophe clucked. “Be gracious, at least," he said, but he was teasing. They both walked into a new hallway, where an ISU official let them into the conference room. The room within buzzed with with a few dozen voices; the journalists were already lined up, pads and tablets in hand, a row of serious-looking cameras like sentinels behind them. “Don’t worry,” Christophe said, perhaps sensing Yuuri’s reluctance, “I’m more than happy to hog all of your press time if you’re feeling shy.”  
  
“I can always count on you,” Yuuri said, and Christophe grinned.    
  
He put a hand on Yuuri’s elbow, and they stepped up onto the slightly raised stage together. Yuuri’s name was already on a table tent in front of his seat; Victor’s was just to his right, and Christophe found his way to the left. More journalists filtered into the room slowly from the back, along with a surprising number of ISU officials. Yuuri really, really wanted this to be over soon. More than that, though, he wanted Victor to hurry up.  
  
He got his second wish, at least, a minute later. Victor walked in and grinned at the crowd, carrying his own bottle of water. “Are you all here to hear from my Yuuri?” he asked, winking at a camera. “The gold medalist, maybe you’ve heard of him?”  
  
“Victor," Yuuri said, sighing, and Christophe laughed.  
  
Most of the press conference went exactly like that: Victor performed beautifully and broadly, switching effortlessly between commenting on his own plans and performance as a competitor and on Yuuri’s performance and future as his coach. Christophe seemed well amused by the entire show, and Yuuri, well. Yuuri didn’t love being at the center of everyone’s attention, but he’d won the damn thing and didn’t mind reminding people about that. So he was mostly just a ball of vague discomfort who managed to string together a few sentences about being pleased with his success.  
  
The only trouble spot came when a reporter strayed just slightly from the usual scoring-and-retirement questions script. “And what about your coach, Victor? Can you tell us more about his condition?”  
  
Victor paused, his hands folding together in front of him. “Yakov Feltsman, as many of you know, has been a like a father to me. In fact, over the years, I’ve probably spent more time with him, and certainly more time being yelled at by him, than with my own father.” He tilted his head as if to allow everyone time to process that. Yuuri couldn’t look away from him. “He’s given me a lot of good advice over the years. He’s given me a lot of instructions. And although I know he would say I never listen, today, I’m going to respect his wishes and the wishes of his family and not comment at all on Yakov’s condition except to say that he’s receiving excellent care, and he looks forward to seeing you soon.”  
  
The reporters were scrambling to write notes on what he’d said, and Yuuri hoped they wouldn’t be too vicious with their follow-up questions. It was probably too much to wish for.  
  
“Are you taking over Mr. Feltsman’s coaching work, then?” one young reporter called out.  
  
“Will he return in time for Nationals?”  
  
“What about Worlds?”  
  
“Ah,” Victor said, “I see, this is a translation problem? Yuuri, Chris, how do you explain ‘no comment’ in your native languages?”  
  
Christophe laughed, and so did a few of the members of the press. Yuuri felt restless. The rest turned back to their notebooks and tablets, and the conference moved on from there. Victor was Victor: gregarious, confident, completely at ease. After they wrapped up the questions, he stood and rested a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, his fingertips just brushing the nape of Yuuri’s neck.  
  
“Banquet next, yes?” he asked.  
  
Yuuri nodded. “You’re coming?”  
  
“Yes,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “Let’s just make sure the others are set for the evening, all right?”  
  
“Yes,” Yuuri said. All he wanted, really, was time with Victor, time away from the pressures of competition, performance, and minding their Russian teammates. If that had to happen at the banquet, well, so be it. “That sounds wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the nice comments! Eeeek! It's meant a lot.


	7. Monday: Departures, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nearly time to leave the GPF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sorry this wasn't posted earlier in the day. I wish I had a better reason, but honestly... I forgot it was Thursday!

Yuuri woke the next morning with a dull headache from drinking the night before and a familiar spike in his anxiety. They were scheduled to fly out later that afternoon, arriving back in St. Petersburg around 10 p.m. local time. Yuuri didn’t mind flying; there was something fairly peaceful about how completely things were out of his hands once he was in the air. He did, however, not enjoy the many layers of check-in, security, and customs that were often required while traveling. Already, he wondered where his passport was and whether their tickets were really set for the time he remembered.

As he sat up, intent on checking, he realized the bed next to him was empty. It was barely after 8 a.m., much too early for Victor to be awake after the amount of vodka he’d had the night before. But the bed next to him was cool to the touch, and he couldn’t hear any sounds in the suite. Victor’s phone wasn’t on the bedside table, either.

Yuuri put on his glasses and sat up, fumbling for his own phone. He’d apparently failed to plug it in the night before, so he had to lean over and plug it into Victor’s charger just to get it to turn on. As he waited, he stretched, his legs and back aching from three days of performance skating and not enough stretching or rest. When they returned to St. Petersburg, he’d need to get back to his routine: ballet, running, better food. He needed to make an appointment with their trainer, as well, since his feet ached beyond their usual. Victor used kinesio tape to shore up his knee, and Yuuri had begun to wonder if he would benefit from the same for his ankles, perhaps. He had ten days until Japanese Nationals in Osaka, which really meant one day of travel back to St. Petersburg, seven days at home, and then two more back to Japan. Not enough time: there was never enough time.

His phone booted up and chimed. Yuuri reached for it, but hadn’t yet checked his waiting messages before Victor walked in. “Ah, you’re awake!” He carried a paper tray with two drinks and a small bag.

“Hi,” Yuuri said. “You went for breakfast?”

“Mm,” Victor said, nodding. He set the food on the small table and took off his jacket. Yuuri could smell the cold outside air on him, saw the glisten of melted snow in Victor’s hair. “I took a little stroll. Seemed a shame to leave the city without really seeing much of it!” 

His tone was so bright that Yuuri felt suspicious: this was Victor’s press voice, his fan voice. Yuuri rubbed his forehead. “Did you sleep well?”

Victor shrugged one shoulder. “Not particularly. You seemed to be sleeping very well, though. Gold medal skater and sleeper! My Yuuri, a winner in everything he tries.”

Yuuri tried, then, to roll his eyes, but that made his head ache. “Ugh,” he murmured, pushing the heel of his hand to one eye.

“Coffee will help,” Victor said, which sounded like a lie, but Yuuri pulled himself out of bed anyway. He sat across from Victor, blinking at him, wondering if he was remembering last night incorrectly.

The banquet’s speeches had been as boring as usual, but the after party had been terrible. Half of the skating world had wanted to come up and offer Victor condolences about Yakov; the other half had wanted the scoop on his condition. After watching Victor try to politely dodge a third or fourth intrusive patron’s questions, Yuuri had called for reinforcements. They’d left the juniors in Mila’s care, collected Christophe and Phichit along the way, and followed Christophe to a cafe and bar that stayed open late. They’d split two bottles of wine over a late, indulgent dessert, then moved to the bar, where Yuuri and Phichit had continued their French wine adventure while Christophe and Victor had ordered individual drinks. For Yuuri, that exploration had been the mistake. “Aren’t you a little, ah,” he said, and rubbed his head.

Victor’s smile was genuine and also a little mean, Yuuri thought. “No, I didn’t have quite the night that you did," he said, voice a little too amused. “You do remember it all, don’t you?”

Yuuri could remember drinking with Phichit, laughing quite a bit, tripping over his chair and falling into Victor’s arms, and then a bewildering cab ride back to the hotel. “I remember,” he said. “Unless there’s a secret dance off that I’ve blocked out.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Victor said. “You were quite tame, though still delightful.”

“Hm.” The coffee didn’t really help, except that it washed away the dry-sour taste in Yuuri’s mouth. “Why are you up so early?”

“Making some arrangements,” Victor said.

Yuuri narrowed his eyes at the word “arrangements,” which had taken on special meaning in the last few months. “If it’s wedding stuff, Vitka, can I please go back to sleep for a little while?”

Victor’s long fingers carefully pulled two pastries from the paper bag in front of him. One was a curlicue of flaky golden pastry with a pale, custardy center, which Victor slid on to the napkin nearest Yuuri. The other was flat and rectangular, with a smear of fruit at one end. Victor took this one for himself and dipped it into his drink. “Not about the wedding,” he said, after finishing his mouthful of pastry. “Do you want to shower before we talk, or —“

Yuuri shrugged. He picked at the pastry, not sure he was awake enough to stomach it. “Just tell me," he said, privately hoping that whatever it was, he’d have time to go back to sleep.

The paper bag crinkled as Victor set his jam-filled croissant down. “I’ve been trying to decide what to do about going back to St. Petersburg.”

Yuuri nodded, slowly. This wasn’t a surprise: Victor had mentioned wondering whether he should stay with Yakov. “What did you decide?”

Victor shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ve decided anything. But I did take some time with Yakov’s notes last night.” He frowned, then, and Yuuri watched him swallow. “He thinks both Dima and the junior pair will be selected to go to Russian senior Nationals. They announce the list tomorrow, but I think he’s right.”

“Senior?” Victor nodded. “That’s two weeks.”

“Yes.” Victor frowned, probably thinking the same thing Yuuri was: There was no way Yakov would be recovered enough by then to help his younger skaters through a pretty stressful experience. “I’m going to ask them if they’d like me to, ah, take over for Yakov, just while we’re waiting for him to recover.”

Yuuri took a bite of his pastry so that he could think without speaking. Victor stepping in as their coach made a certain amount of sense, but it also meant that he would have even less time for Yuuri, and for his own skating. Another question lingered, too: What if it _wasn’t_ temporary? Yuuri couldn’t ask that, though, so he chewed for as long as he could. Victor had his eyes averted, looking over at the drapes currently drawn across their windows. Yuuri sipped his coffee. “What about your programs?” he asked.

Victor shrugged. “I’ll medal at Nationals,” he said, easily. “Yurio is my only real competition, and…” He waved his hand back and forth in a so-so motion. It reminded Yuuri of Phichit’s evaluation of Yuri’s quad Lutz. “He hasn’t adapted well to his growth.” It was true, but Yuuri still hadn’t adapted to the way that Victor could so casually dismiss a competitor. He had to fight, still, not to think about whether Victor had ever done such a quick, vicious calculation about his own skills. Victor leaned forward. “What about _your_ programs?”

Yuuri sighed. Nationals shouldn’t be a big deal. He understood that logically. There were no other Japanese skaters that came within 20 points of Yuuri on technical score; in fact, only one was currently landing any quads in competition (though bless Minami for trying and trying to be another). He could probably go there and fall on every jump and still medal. Of course, he’d also have to endure another awkward sit-down meeting with the JSF this year, where they tried to persuade him to find a different coach or at least a different living situation, one that made fewer international headlines. They didn’t mind his celebrity; they just wished it was of a milder, more athletic variety instead of the dramatic idol-like lifestyle he seemed to somehow lead in the press.

“Are you asking whether I think you should do this?” Yuuri asked, not looking up.

“Perhaps," Victor said, the closest he would come to an admission.

“You weren’t coming to Osaka anyway.”

“No,” he agreed. The timing between their two national competitions hadn’t allowed Victor to join him the year before, either. Yuuri had already asked Minako to meet him at the competition, had even paid for her travel, just to have a mostly-friendly face nearby. He picked a bit at his pastry, already feeling guilty about having to lean on his old teacher so much. “But this time — Yuuri, it doesn’t really make sense for you to come back to St. Petersburg and then leave a few days later, when you could be training comfortably in Japan.”

Now Yuuri looked up. “You don’t think I should come home?”

“It’s not — not like that,” Victor said, shaking his head. “And it warms my heart every single time you say ‘home.’ But if I take them on, then I’ll have even less time and, quite frankly, there will be a fair amount of stress involved.” He reached over and cupped Yuuri’s cheek with one hand. “I want to spare you this stress, if I can, but I’m not entirely selfless. I still want you back the minute you’re done.”

“Yes, of course,” Yuuri said. “I — you really think I should go to Japan, ah, now?”

“If you’d like to,” Victor said. “I’m sure we can find ice time for you before the competition, no problem.” Yuuri nearly rolled his eyes: What was “no problem” for Victor was often a problem for everyone around him. “You already have a hotel room in Osaka, so extending it a few days is doable, too. Unless…” He trailed off, looking at Yuuri hopefully, and Yuuri sighed.

“You think I should go back to Hasetsu, eh?” Victor grinned. It wasn’t a completely terrible idea, except that traveling there would mean adding 3 hours of travel time. He could practice at Ice Castle, probably, and burn off stress in Minako’s studio. His parents would be thrilled. Mari would probably not hate it. He sighed. “Did you already call my parents?”

“Noooo,” Victor said, too sing-song. “I texted! Who just calls out of nowhere? Uncivilized.”

Yuuri rubbed his face. “You’re a menace.”

“That you love.”

“Hm.” Yuuri looked up in time to see Victor put on his best fake-wounded face. “I’ll think about it. Do I have time to think about it? Did you already book my flight out?”

“Not quite,” Victor said, but he looked a little shifty about it. “And actually, I do need your help with something this morning.” Yuuri raised an eyebrow, an Victor laughed. “Not that. Not even close, though I am charmed and a little appalled that you thought of it. No. I — help me talk to them, would you?”

“To my parents?”

“No, the junior skaters,” Victor said.

Yuuri nodded, slowly, thinking that Victor likely didn’t really need his help convincing anyone to sign up as his student. “Fine. But over breakfast,” he said. “They react well to food, and I’ll definitely need more coffee.”

“On me, of course,” Victor said.

Yuuri grinned. “Of course, Coach.”

* * *

This was how, an hour later, Yuuri found himself scrunched between Yuri and Vadim in a booth at the hotel restaurant. Their usual long, spacious table was occupied that morning by a business meeting, but Victor had found a way for them to all be seated together, though it had involved dragging a small table up to a booth.

Yuuri, Yuri, Vadim, and Mila were already seated; Victor had gone to fetch the others from their rooms. Nathalie’s parents had left that morning, entrusting her to Victor’s care again, mostly because her plane ticket back had been booked and paid for by Yakov. Yuuri wasn’t sure, but he thought Yuri was making a special effort not to look at him, and Vadim blushed every time anyone said his name. A great start to the morning, Yuuri thought, sipping his second coffee.

Mila, at least, was sociable. As they waited for the other four to arrive, she leaned forward over the table and fixed Yuuri with a stare. “Has Victor said anything else about how Yakov is doing? I feel like we should be doing something, or — you know, sending flowers, or something.”

“He doesn’t need stupid flowers,” Yuri muttered, focused on his phone. “What’s he going to do with them, watch them die?”

“Maybe he needs things," Mila said, shrugging. “Things to do, I mean, like, a book or something?”

“Does Yakov read?” Yuuri asked, curious. He’d never seen Yakov with a book — save his folio or stapled packets of ISU documents.

Mila shrugged. “Isn’t it what you do in hospital?”

Vadim, who had so far been quiet, said, “My aunt crochets. In hospital. She’s, ah. There a lot.”

Yuuri elbowed Yuri hard when he started to say something cutting. “It’s a good thought, to send him something to help pass the time,” he said, trying to sound diplomatic or, at least, vague and comforting, “but I think Yakov may not yet be up for much.”

“No kidding,” Yuri said, grumbling.

Yuuri heard Victor’s voice before he saw him, and he was relieved. He really hadn’t wanted to chat anymore about Yakov’s condition without Victor nearby; he didn’t want to misinform them or over-inform them, preferring to leave those decisions to Victor. It wasn’t as though Yuuri had seen Yakov, after all.

“Well, good morning,” Victor said, taking a seat at the head of their long table. “Tea, everyone?”

It took a few minutes for them to all settle on drinks and food. Once they’d all ordered, and everyone had begun to doctor their morning beverages accordingly (the teens pouring in more sugar than Yuuri normally allowed himself in a day), Victor caught Yuuri’s eye. He nodded, and Yuuri nodded back, trying to look supportive. He still wasn’t sure why Victor wanted him here, other than as moral support.

“Everyone," Victor said, voice calm but carrying well. “I want to talk to you a bit about Yakov.”

They sat and sipped their cocoas and teas, and Victor gave an obviously abridged version of Yakov’s health at the moment. He mentioned the open-heart surgery and that it had not gone as well as hoped, but he managed to end on an optimistic note: if he could get up and around soon, they still expected a full recovery.

“However," he said, “there are two issues. First, he will need to recover somewhere with care available. His sister has volunteered, but she lives in Yekaterinburg.”

Yuuri watched Katya, seated next to Victor, absorb this. She looked different today: wearing make-up, he realized, but not the showy kind they put on for skating. In a satin jacket and with her hair tied up, she looked like a normal teenager. Now, her mouth turned down, her blue-shadowed eyelids fluttering. “That’s pretty far away," she said.

“Yes,” Victor agreed. “The second issue is related to this. It is unlikely that he will be back in shape to coach until the end of this season.”

The news, Yuuri thought, probably should not have been surprising — but it clearly was. Katya’s eyes went immediately to Ilya, seated in the corner of the booth; Mila frowned and rested her head in one hand. Even Yuri cursed under his breath.

“Your contracts have clear clauses for situations like these," Victor said, “which I know, because they’re nearly identical to mine. In the event that your coach is unable to continue, you may look for a new coach, with no penalty or prejudice.” His smile, now, was gentle, barely a smile. Now Yuuri was studiously avoiding looking anywhere near Yuri, though he knew they’d have to talk soon. “But I know for most of us, switching coaches mid-season is not a comfortable undertaking, for many reasons. So — I want to offer a compromise.”

“You can coach us," Mila said, before Victor could get any further. “You’re already a coach, and you know Yakov’s methods better than anyone.”

“Would you?” Nathalie said.

Victor’s mouth fell open, and then, after a pause, he laughed. “I was going to suggest a trial period,” he said. “Several of you are likely to compete at senior nationals this month. Let’s — if you’d like, we’ll work together on that. I can probably accommodate the same schedule Yakov had for individual work, and if you stay with the rink, you’ll have the same access to everything else that you’ve had before.”

“Including meals?” Vadim asked.

Victor nodded. “I made sure of this. You’re all in good standing with the club, and your coaching package fee pays for everything. It’s just that, instead of Yakov, you’ll have me.”

“What about you?” Katya said, and it took Yuuri a nudge from Yuri to realize she was talking to him.

“Ah, what about me?”

“Will you still train with Victor?”

“Of course,” he said. “Though I will be away for Japanese nationals until the 25th.”

“Do you really think you can take on two of your own competitors plus five other skaters, _Coach_ Victor?” Yuri asked.

“It’s more like seven, if I take Yakov’s full roster," Victor said, then pretended to scratch his chin. “I wonder if Georgi will accept me as a temporary coach.”

Vadim swallowed so hard that Yuuri heard it. “Could we — is there any chance we can talk to him?”

Victor nearly flinched. “Ah,” he said. “Here’s something else we should discuss.”

“We can visit him today, right?” Katya said. “Now that the competition’s over.”

”Y-es," Victor said. “But — I’m not sure if you —“

Before he could finish, their food arrived. The servers set plates before them all, and Yuuri looked at his own with no small amount of self-pity. He had dry toast and scrambled eggs to look forward to, at least until it was katsudon time again. (And he regretted, now, the upset stomach that had made him push away the pastry that morning). Still, in a way, he was grateful, because the heavier fare that he saw around him might have made his stomach queasier than it already was. Yuuri found a small container of black cherry jam and added a smear before Yuri could get to it for his refilled tea.

“I would be happy to take anyone who wants to go to the hospital to see Yakov today, before we leave," Victor said. “But you need to prepare yourselves. He is — he does not look well.”

“Jesus, be a little more vague, could you?” Yuri snapped.

Across the table, Katya leaned into Mila, suddenly tucked under her arm. “How sick is he?” Ilya asked, pushing sausages around his plate with a fork.

“His condition remains very serious,” Victor said. “He was awake early this morning. Today might not be a bad time to visit, but — I make no promises.” He folded his hands and leaned forward. Beneath them, the table was empty: he had ordered nothing but black coffee. “You should take a day or two to decide. Talk to your family, if they’re involved. We’ll travel back to Piter together. Whatever you decide, I will help you however I can with arranging for the rest of the season, all right?”

“Thank you,” Katya said, and her teammates echoed this.

“Whatever," Yuri said. “When do we leave?”

* * *

An hour later, Yuuri was still squashed between Vadim and Yuri, with Mila just in front, but now it was in the back of a cab instead of at a restaurant table. Victor had taken a cab with Katya and Ilya and Nathalie, which was likely the jolting vehicle they were following. As they bumped through the busy streets, Yuuri was starting to regret even his meager breakfast. He really, really shouldn’t have tried so many wines the night before. (No one else seemed to think the ride was inordinately bumpy).

They arrived at the hospital after about ten minutes, which might have been five if they hadn’t encountered traffic. The hospital complex was enormous, a winged building of white stone and modern brick with an enormous red banner pointing to the emergency wing. Victor had arrived first, and he greeted them and paid their cabbie while Yuuri unfolded himself ungracefully onto the sidewalk. Victor took his hand immediately. “We’ll enter through the main lobby, sign in, and then we can go to his room.”

Victor always walked with a certain confidence: even in strange locations, new cities, unfamiliar situations, he carried himself as though he belonged. That particular trait was on full display in the hospital, though Victor clearly did at least know his way around from the door to Yakov’s room. Nurses paused to tell him hello; even a patient or two seemed to know him. Yuuri wondered, not for the first time, if Victor somehow existed in two places at once sometimes, if he was simultaneously at the hospital befriending all of Yakov’s neighbors and at the rink helping the rest of them win medals. It seemed possible.

Yuuri had put on a flu mask before they’d left the hotel, and now, he couldn’t help the urge to fiddle with the strings as they walked down freshly disinfected hallways. Monitors beeped in otherwise quiet rooms; the doors were heavy, bland wood, but the walls had been painted a cheerful blue along the corridor. They passed a central nurse’s station lined with computer monitors and staffed by three uniformed professionals, all of whom waved at Victor and nodded him through. The tallest woman said something in rapid French, and Victor laughed.

“Oui, c'est mon mari et nos enfants.” When Yuuri looked up at him, he said, “I was saying we’re all family.”

It was close enough, Yuuri thought. The nurse spoke again, and Victor nodded. “She says three at a time,” he said, “no more than four. Irina might be in there already, so — I’ll check.” He drew them down the hall, then pointed them toward a small waiting room. It had two garishly bright green couches, three royal-blue armchairs, and several molded plastic white chairs. French-language television ran softly from a screen in the corner. Victor paused just inside the door, as the rest of the skaters wandered in. Yuri fell immediately onto one of the armchairs, a careless leg thrown over its arm, his phone already in hand.

“Hurry up,” Yuri said, and Victor nodded.

“Everyone stay here.” He hadn’t yet let go of Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri understood that this invitation did not extend to him: Victor wanted Yuuri with him. It was flattering, somehow, or reassuring, even if that warmth could barely overcome the dread in his stomach. “We’ll be right back,” he said, and drew Yuuri into the hall.

Yakov’s room was two doors away, open only a crack. “Ah, good, that means we can go in,” Victor said. He rapped lightly anyway before pushing the door open, and he drew Yuuri behind him before he had even a moment to worry. The room inside was cramped, but not small. It had a lavatory by the door before it opened into a square, which held room for a bed, two chairs, a small table, and a television bolted to the wall. Yakov’s bed was backed to the wall, and wires snaked from the stack behind him down beneath the thin white blanket that covered him.

Yakov was a presence on and off the ice. Yuuri often thought that Victor had built his own public persona from observing his coach’s: certainly, Victor-the-Coach echoed Yakov in many uncanny ways. Yakov, though, loomed in a way Victor never had: he was a large man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, whose voice boomed through every room as though he was calling across an entire icy arena. Yuuri’s year in St. Petersburg had not really helped to soften his image of Yakov. If anything, the reality of Yakov was more intimidating than the legend, because in the magazine interviews and highlight reels, Yakov had never singled out Yuuri for criticism.

Now, he’d been on the receiving end of sharp words and curses. He’d never experienced the full-steam rants that Victor and even Yuri sometimes endured, but he lived in fear of them.

The man on the bed, though, seemed completely removed from those memories. Yakov’s pale legs were visible where the sheet had tangled; his feet were wrapped in unbecoming elastic socks, and a machine hissed nearby, inflating and deflating an apparatus around both legs. A thin gown struggled to cover the swell of his stomach and chest. A puffy, red line covered by angry black stitches disappeared into the neck of the gown. Yuuri spied a thin drop of some fluid, turning a penny-sized circle of the gown transparent at the center of Yakov’s chest, and he turned his head, appalled. Victor’s hand tightened in his own.

A woman sat next to the bed. 

“Good morning, Irina Vladimirovna,” Victor said, voice just above a whisper.

“Victor Petrovich,” she said, and then spoke a string of Russian too rapid and soft for Yuuri to even try to understand. She looked almost nothing like Yakov: her hair was snow white and held up in a tight top knot, her face sharp and thin, her clothing delicate and strangely formal. As she spoke, one hand fidgeted with the lace collar of her blouse. Yuuri had pictured someone younger, but now it was clear that Irina was older than Yakov by at least several years.

“Da,” Victor said, and somehow gestured to Yuuri without moving either hand. “I have brought my fiancé and the other skaters from our rink. Has he been awake recently?”

“Some.” She sighed, and when she spoke again, her words were slow and too loud and in English. “He needs medicine soon. Will be awake.”

Even as she spoke, Yakov began to stir on the bed. His head moved side to side, first, and one hand lifted in a loose fist. Then, his face contracted in a grimace — not unlike his expression after Yuri missed a toe-loop or after Victor managed to infiltrate the rink’s speaker system.

"Hello, Yakov!” Victor said in Russian, voice cheerful but respectfully quiet. Yakov’s eyes opened slowly, blinking heavily. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Yuuri understood, though the next few muttered words were unintelligible.

Victor nodded. “Da, da,” he said. “It is Monday morning.”

“Monday?” Yakov answered in English, which, Yuuri noticed, made Irina frown.

“Yes,” Victor said. “The skating is all over. We’re leaving for home this afternoon. I brought the other skaters to say hello before we go.”

“Viktor," Yakov said, pronunciation sharp over the two syllabus, “what are you talking about? There’s the Grand Prix!”

Irina muttered something in Russian, and Yakov snapped back. Irina’s frown deepened. She gathered a worn leather purse from her chair and slid it over one arm, stalking toward the door. Victor didn’t seem bothered, so Yuuri tried not to worry about what this meant.

She paused at the door. “Do not upset,” Irina said, English sharp. “He is not good to be upset.”

She left, and Yakov huffed. Victor lay one hand on Yakov’s shoulder, just briefly. “Do not worry,” he said. “Everyone did well. You’ll be very proud. Everything is taken care of.”

Yakov’s eyes narrowed, and Yuuri was transported back to the airport, seeing again the side-long glance they had shared. Victor, this time, seemed to understand it, too, because he said, “Look, I’ve brought Yuuri!” He grabbed Yuuri by the elbow and pulled him forward, presenting him like a surprise gift. “He’s been helping!”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Yakov said. He frowned, his eyes closing briefly.

“You remember Yuuri, right?” Victor said, and his hands squeezed Yuuri’s arms with painful tightness.

“Of course I do,” Yakov grumbled. “I have a heart problem, not a brain problem. Stop talking to me like I’m an idiot.” One of his hands rubbed his own shoulder. “Who else did you bring with you?”

“Yurotchka, Mila, Katya and Ilya, Dima, and Natalya,” Victor said. “The entire crew.” Yakov sighed, then groaned, one hand fluttering briefly over his chest. “Yakov?” Victor’s voice was high, worried.

“Fine,” he said. “Better bring them in, then. I’ve got five minutes each, then it’s time for my pain medication, and I’m not missing it.” Victor stood still, hands still clenched around Yuuri’s biceps. “Go.”

Victor nodded and stepped back. Yuuri half-turned, not sure what to do. “Should I…?”

“Why don’t you…”

“Katsuki. Stay a minute,” Yakov said, and Yuuri watched Victor’s eyes widen slightly. “Go, go, Vitya.” Victor patted Yuuri’s arm again, then said he’d be right back. “Get a new pitcher of water, while you’re at it,” Yakov said.

“OK, OK.”

The door closed, and Yuuri turned back to face him. He couldn’t remember ever having been alone in a room with Yakov. Yakov was Victor’s coach, his mentor, his might-as-well-be-a-father figure. He’d also been a part of Yuuri’s admiration of Victor for years, and being in close quarters with him hadn’t lessened Yuuri’s respect. He fully believed that Yakov looked forward to trying to train Victor’s children to ice skate someday, and to telling them hair-raising stories about their father’s antics. Even without an official marriage license, Yuuri already suspected that Yakov was the closest thing to a father-in-law that he would ever really meet — which only added to the stress that a one-on-one meeting provided. 

Yakov grunted. Behind him, a machine gave a lazy beep. “Did you beat Victor in the Grand Prix?”

“What? Oh, ah, yes,” Yuuri said. “I mean, he took silver. It was — only a few points?”

“A few points! How many?” His eyes were narrowed, again, but his face hadn’t gained any color, as it always did when he was angry.

“Ah — 14,” Yuuri said.

Yakov’s eyebrows went up. “Did he fall?”

“No,” Yuuri said, then, “ah, not, um. Not really? He put a hand down in the short.”

“What did you do?”

“Ah, the quad flip. And, ah, the quad salchow. Two quad lutzes, two toe loops.”

“Six quads!” Yakov laughed, then groaned, clearly in pain from that. “No, it’s fine. Good. Good for you. You should keep doing that.”

“Quads?” Yuuri said, surprised to be receiving coaching advice from Yakov Feltsman.

“No,” he said. “Challenging Vitya. It’s good for him. Good for, ah,” he said, and waved his hand at Yuuri as though he was trying to gesture between him and an invisible person.

Yuuri nodded, swiftly, frantically. He really did not want relationship advice from Yakov, as fascinating as the idea was in theory. “Thank you,” he said. “I will. I — of course.”

“Good,” Yakov said. “Now tell me, does he really think he’s going to coach all of my students, and you, and skate?”

“Ah,” Yuuri said, and scratched the back of his neck. “I believe he is going to try. Yes.”

Yakov pressed his lips together. He couldn’t tell if he was suppressing an outburst or a laugh. “Then he will certainly need you,” he said, shaking his head.

Before Yuuri could ask for clarification, the door opened, and Victor walked in with Katya, Ilya, and Mila. “Where is my water?” Yakov asked, and all four Russians smiled. Yuuri decided to take this as his cue, and he bowed a quick thank you and good-bye to Yakov before leaving.

Leaving his room didn’t make him go away, though. As he walked down the cheery hospital hallway, Yuuri kept coming back to Yakov saying that Victor would need him. In their time together, he had begun to see the ways that Victor did need someone — no, that Victor did need Yuuri, specifically. And not just in skating, though Yuuri perhaps understood his role in Victor’s life best when it was defined by their sport. No, Victor also needed him as a partner and a lover, someone he could count on, someone who would worry about and for him.

He walked back into the waiting room, thinking about this, and was surprised when Yuri leapt to his feet in front of him. “Don’t go anywhere,” Yuri growled at Vadim, shoving Yuuri into the hall. “We’re going to the cafeteria.”

"What?” Yuuri let Yuri propel him toward the elevators. “We just ate!”

“Shut up,” Yuri said, and then stabbed the button for the first floor.

“And the cafeteria is in the basement!”

Yuri shoved him into the elevator. “I’m not hungry.” They were released back into the bustling lobby, and Yuri stalked across the room. Yuuri followed helplessly, dodging medical personnel and visitors with muttered excuses. Yuri darted around a clump of bewildered looking young people and stopped in front of a brightly lit vending machine. It was worn, with flickering interior lights and only a few available selections, and it made Yuuri miss the bright and profuse machines in Japan. He leaned back against the other side of the hall, crossing his arms, and watched Yuri consider the selections as though they were plentiful. It occurred to him that, the longer they were down here, the lower Yuri’s chances would be of having time to see Yakov.

While he glared at the selections, most of which were in French but with recognizable brand names, he said, “I wasn’t going to switch mid-season.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Moving mid-season was actually unheard of; skaters did it in only the rarest of circumstances, in part because the physical act of relocation during the season would be painful.

Yuri poked a button next to a photograph of an orange drink, then glared at the price it brought up. “I’m still not,” he said.

“OK.” He wasn’t surprised — but he was relieved. It felt important that Yuri was going to stay, even though Victor had explained that they had options. He didn’t have to stay. He was choosing to do it. “That’s good. I’m — glad.”

“Don’t get weepy.” Yuri fed the machine money, then appeared to re-read the selections again. “I’m not promising anything about next season. Even if Yakov is back…”

Before Yuuri could ask him to finish the sentence, Yuri punched the button again. A mechanical arm picked up a bottom-heavy glass bottle and delivered it to the opening. Yuri picked it up warily.

“You want anything?”

Yuuri shook his head. “No, thank you.”

They stepped back into the lobby, where Yuri opened his drink and took a sip. He made a face, then drank again. “Huh,” he said, staring at the bottle more closely, then shrugging. “I just didn’t want you to think I would do that. Mid-season.”

“I didn’t. I don’t," Yuuri said. “Did Yakov know?”

Yuri shrugged, looking down. Yuuri looked, too, and watched the way his trainers scuffed the carpet. “Probably. I told Christophe and Josef not to mention it, but nobody fucking listens to me.” He sighed. Two nurses hustled past them, and Yuuri stepped closer to avoid them. Yuri stayed still, staring at the drink in his hands. “It hasn’t been a good year.”

That was probably an understatement, all things considered, but Yuri didn’t need a review. “It might still improve.”

Yuri snorted. “You’re such a loser,” he said, and Yuuri took it as affection. “Come on, if we don’t get back Dima will probably rat us out to Dad.”

Yuuri grinned. Dad was what the skaters called Yakov when they felt he was being particularly overbearing. “Did Victor get an upgrade?”

“Apparently,” Yuri said, smirking.

When they arrived back on Yakov’s floor, they almost collided with the other group coming out of his room. It turned out he really had spent a few minutes with each of the skaters, quizzing them on their routines and offering congratulations. Victor looked between Yuuri and Yuri and said, one eyebrow raised, “Irina is not back from the cafeteria, if anyone else wants to visit.”

“Fine, whatever,” Yuri said, then disappeared into Yakov’s room. Victor collected Vadim and sent him in, then waited a nearly respectable two minutes before barging in after him, leaving Yuuri with the rest of the group.

“I’ll get cars set up for the ride back,” Mila offered, and Yuuri said thanks. “Victor said he’s staying for a bit — are you staying here, too?”

“Oh, ah,” Yuuri said, then shrugged. If he didn’t ride back with them, who would pay for the cabs? “I need to pack,” he said after a moment. “As long as Victor doesn’t need anything, I’ll ride back with you all.” He didn’t imagine the look of relief on their faces, and it made him grateful for his access to Victor’s credit cards.

When Victor and Yuri returned to the waiting room, Yuri had his arms crossed. “Pain medicine time,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

Victor caught Yuuri by the shoulder on the way out. “I need to stay for a bit," he said. “His doctor is coming back shortly, and Irina wants me to translate. Plus I want to…” He shrugged.

“You want to be here for him,” Yuuri said. “It’s good. I’ll get everyone rounded up.”

“Mm.” Victor kissed the side of his head, holding him close. “I’ll be back soon. Thank you.”

In that embrace, Yuuri felt needed. He felt like Victor needed his help with the practical pieces of the day, managing the others, distracting Yuri, all of that, but also like Victor needed someone to understand what he was going through. “I’ll do my best,” he promised, and felt Victor smile against his temple.

“I never expect anything less.”

* * *

At the hotel, he sent everyone else back to their rooms to get ready for their flights. Yakov had booked an early evening flight out of Marseille because the younger skaters had been promised the day for sightseeing. None of them were remotely interested in that, however, so they had instead agreed to arrive early at the airport and spend their time quietly indulging in screen time. They were all given clearance to order room service while they packed, mostly because Yuuri didn’t want to organize a sit-down lunch at the moment.

What he wanted was a few moments to himself, and so that’s what he got. He used the time to collect his things and Victor’s into their respective suitcases. It was more challenging than it should have been. On the trip to Marseille, they had shared the cases, packing workout clothes in one, casual wear in the other, and folding their costumes into a single garment bag that they had refused to consider checking.

Now, though, they would have to untangle their belongings, if Yuuri was flying straight to Japan. The thought was surprisingly unpleasant. He did want to see his family, and ice time in Hasetsu would be wonderful, but… it felt like the wrong time to go.

It felt like the wrong time to be away from Victor.

By the time Victor returned from the hotel, Yuuri had packed all of their things. He had ordered their lunch when Victor had texted to say he was on his way from the hospital, so the food arrived just after Victor did. They sat to eat at the small table.

“They are pleased with his progress,” Victor said. Yuuri had ordered him salad Niçoise, and he watched Victor pick at it with a delicate fork. “He was able to walk briefly. They’ll move him to a regular room later tonight, and he’ll stay a few more days before he can travel.” 

“That’s good news,” Yuuri said, though he couldn’t tell if it really was.

“Yes.” Victor took a bite and chewed, slowly. “They’ll travel back by train. Irina’s request. Yakov has the money for it, though I’m not sure it will be comfortable for him.”

“You’re worried," Yuuri said. Victor shrugged, looking down at his food. “It’s reasonable to be worried.”

He looked up, then over to the windows. “Perhaps.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri said, and then he reached over and cupped his face.

“Yes,” he said, meeting Yuuri’s eyes. “I am worried.”

Yuuri nodded. He rubbed his thumb over Victor’s high cheekbone, smiled when Victor briefly closed his eyes, and then withdrew so that his hand covered Victor’s on the table instead. They finished lunch that way, quietly. Yuuri’s poached chicken cut like butter but tasted like too many recent meals. Victor toyed with a grape tomato, then pushed his plate away and rose to get a new bottle of sparkling water.

After he’d gulped a few drinks, he stayed standing, leaning against the empty dresser. “You look like you want to say something.”

Yuuri nodded. He stood, too, and walked over to sit on the bed. Their positions were perfect mirrors from two nights ago, Victor standing where Yuuri had. The tension was different, but Yuuri felt, again, that he knew Victor. He knew what he could offer. “I was going to demand that you take me back to Russia with you,” he said. Victor raised an eyebrow. “Take me home and marry me, that was my demand.”

Victor set his water bottle down behind him. His smile looked brittle and curious at the same time. Trusting. Tired. “Are you no longer going to be demanding?”

“Mm," Yuuri said, and smiled. “Well. I’m going to go to Japan, now. But here is my new demand: once I’m back, I want to help you.”

“You already do," Victor started, but Yuuri shook his head, holding up a hand to halt Victor.

“No, I mean, I want to help you with the others," Yuuri said. “You’re a world champion figure skater and the best coach I’ve ever had and there’s absolutely no way that even you can handle coaching seven other people during your last full competitive season.”

“But you — “ Victor shook his head. He rubbed a finger against his lips, then shook his head again. When he sat next to Yuuri on the bed, he smelled faintly of the basil from his meal. “Do you even want to coach?” His tone was even, as though they were simply talking about the future in the abstract. _Do you want to coach? Do you want to travel?_

Yuuri shrugged. “Sure? I guess I always thought it might be where I ended up. Not, like, I guess I always thought I’d end up teaching lessons back at Ice Castle Hasetsu someday, not, ah, filling in for the most winning coach in figure skating history, but — it’s probably about the same, right?”

Victor grinned, which was all the warning Yuuri had before Victor’s arms were thrown around him. He laughed, gripping his folded arms, too. “I guess we’ll find out!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One small translation: “Oui, c'est mon mari et nos enfants.” - Yes, this is my husband and our children.
> 
> There's only one small section left of this! Thank you so much for reading and commenting and kudo'ing!


	8. Final boarding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The GPF is over, but some other challenges are just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the bump up to explicit here! If you want to skip that, stop reading at "I bumped you up to first class" and come back in after the section break. :)

The most direct route to Fukuoka left the next morning. It was the earliest that Victor could find, and it meant that Yuuri would have to stay overnight in Marseille alone. Or it would have, if Victor had been any less devious.  
  
“Remember, Phichit helped,” Victor said, as they climbed off a bus late that night. “Did you know it would take a month to get married in Russia? Crazy!”  
  
“If that’s crazy, this is insane,” Yuuri muttered. The bus station around them was nearly empty, save the few travelers unloading from their own transport. Amber lighting cast the cobblestone street with a haunted glow. The air around them was slightly warmer than it had been in France.  
  
Victor’s hand tightened in his. “In a charming, whimsical way, yes?”  
  
Yuuri looked up at him. They had grabbed last-minute seats on a discount carrier and flown late that afternoon to Málaga, Spain, a three-hour plane flight. Next had come a two-hour bus ride down the Spanish coast. The entire trip had so far taken them terribly out of the way, traveling in the exact opposite direction from where they wanted to go the next day. However, Málaga had one real advantage: it was just over the border from Gibraltar and its no-wait marriages.

“Yes,” Yuuri said, shaking his head. Neither of them spoke Spanish, though Victor was making do with his French. It hadn’t yet made finding their way to their recommended romantic hotel any easier; the signs were completely undecipherable to Yuuri, though he at least recognized what looked like a cab on the street beyond. But they were here, and they weren’t leaving (in Victor’s words) until they were married. He ran a few fingers through Victor’s windswept fringe. “Definitely charming.”

They had seen all of the other skaters off at the airport, trusting Mila to make sure everyone connected with their parents or otherwise made it home safely on return to St. Petersburg. Victor would return tomorrow, and they would start their practice for Nationals bright and early the next morning.

“Where is the fun and surprise in waiting?” Victor said. “Oo, do you think you could, maybe, FaceTime me in when you tell your family?”

“I’ll see what I can do," Yuuri said. “And now, they’re your family, too.”

“Ohhhhh,” Victor said, and then stopped to kiss him right there in the street.

They were married two hours later by a manager at their hotel who moonlighted as someone important in the registry office. Victor’s eyes glittered throughout, even though he admitted later he’d understood, perhaps, 50 percent of what the man had said. They’d both changed into the suits they’d most recently worn at the GPF banquet: Victor left his collar open, but gave Yuuri a new tie purchased hastily at the airport. Instead of exchanging new rings, they had offered each other the same rings from Barcelona, again, smiling and laughing at the way they’d already held so much meaning: as thank you tokens; as good luck charms; as engagement rings; and now, as a symbol of their marriage.

Their witnesses were a couple they’d met at the front desk, both doctors traveling to a conference nearby. They were kind enough to take photos throughout on Victor’s phone. The older doctor had reminded Yuuri so strongly of Minako he’d almost called her. Almost. After all, they had only one night together to celebrate their marriage, and his priority wasn’t calling up old family friends.

Victor had booked a special room at the hotel, but his last-minute reservation was mixed up, and they wound up in a smaller room with one double bed instead of the grand, ocean-view suite he’d imagined. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. They had eyes only for each other, and any space would have been enough for them. Even later, when there was no space between them, it was still too much.

They both turned off their phones and tucked them into their suitcases, ignoring calls and texts and the world beyond. For one night, Yakov’s health wasn’t their primary conversation. They didn’t talk about Nationals. They just… were, together, cocooned in warmth and desire and mutual regard. It was more than enough. It was everything.  
  
Yuuri woke first the next morning. Maybe it was still night — he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t even checked to see if they were in a different time zone here, trusting his phone to update even if his body’s clock was still fighting to adapt. Next to him, Victor slept peacefully, face turned toward Yuuri, body stretched beneath the soft, thin blanket. Yuuri propped himself on his elbows and stared down at him. From this close, he could see him perfectly, even in the fuzzy light seeping through the hotel’s curtains. His face was slack with sleep, pale eyelashes folded against smooth, still-dark skin under his eyes; his collarbones rose with each breath, their hollows pronounced and glistening faintly in the warmth of the room. Everything about Victor was unbelievably beautiful to him.

He slid out of bed, pulling on one of the complementary robes, and walked over to turn up the fan. The room smelled strange: a mix of the inevitable damp of a seaside hotel, the strong detergent from the bleached white sheets and robes, and the musky scents rising from their bodies. He rubbed idly at his own neck, fingers sliding over tender, probably marked skin.

Outside, he heard the thud of feet across the hallway and wondered if that had woken him. They had reserved a room in a hotel meant for families or longer-stay vacationers because it was all that was left on such short notice. Now, particularly with the unexpected downgrade, it wasn’t exactly romantic, but Yuuri liked the rustic, older feeling of the place. It wasn’t anything like his family’s inn, but he could recognize some of the attempts to hide its age, the way the elevator’s floor sparkled with new marble but had creaked as it rose to their room, or how the hallway walls had fresh paper but the rooms themselves had patch-work painting. Victor’s moonlit skin gleamed against the faded comforter, his hair elegant against flat, useless pillows.

The room itself was long, and narrow, divided into two distinct spaces by a bar-height counter. The bed was at the far end of the room, nearest the balcony, as though one might rise and immediately fling open the curtains to take in the ocean air on a temperate morning. Yuuri walked around the end of the bed and into the room’s other section, where a loveseat that likely folded into a very uncomfortable bed crouched low against one wall. It faced a television and a small wooden luggage cart that had seemed unequal to the task of either of their suitcases. They were lined up, instead, against the entry wall, near the bathroom and its cramped shower, both cases ready for their next-morning departure. Yuuri briefly considered digging into his for his phone, but he didn’t want to break the silent, comfortable shell of isolation around them. Instead, he pulled a cup from one worn cabinet, rinsed it, and then poured in a bottle of chilled water from the miniature refrigerator.

He stood in the dark, drinking his water and gazing out at the warm, still room before him, thinking of the cold, chaotic world they were avoiding just for this night. Everything that had happened in the last week felt like one of the emergency room shows that Phichit had watched and chatted about at the rink in Detroit. They were in triage mode, fixing things, reacting to the most pressing crises, staunching the bleeding from a drive-by bullet wound.

And now, well. Now, they would find out the long-term damage. They would find out if Yakov would or even could come back. They would find out whether Victor could carry them all — could coach and support them, and himself — under this new level of pressure. They would find out how much they could all do on their own.

Yuuri realized he was afraid. He worried for himself, because he always worried, couldn’t not worry, but now, staring across at him, he felt a tender kind of terror for what awaited Victor in the next few weeks. Yakov was the one in hospital, but they’d all been struck, in some way, by what had happened. Yuri would have an even harder year; the juniors might briefly flail or flounder with the change to their routines. Victor, though, had so many years with Yakov, so much reliance, such a deep and complicated and painful and rewarding relationship with him, that he would be tested at every level through this recovery. He’d been hurt, too. He would continue to be hurt.

Yuuri shivered and set down his glass, his fingers shaking slightly. At least they had this, he thought. They had each other. They had this one bright spot of new and continuing joy, this marriage — this promise — between them. Yuuri knew Victor had been motivated to rush their wedding at least in part by his own fear, by the terrifying questions of mortality that Yakov’s heart attack had raised, but he didn’t mind that. In fact, he treasured it. Victor had been worried, and he’d turned to Yuuri. Victor had felt alone, and he’d reached for Yuuri’s hand.  


Victor had felt helpless, powerless, in the wake of Yakov’s illness, and he’d asked Yuuri if he could care for him, forever, and if he could expect the same in return.

“Hmm,” Victor murmured on the bed, his hand stretching across the empty space before him.

“Over here," Yuuri whispered. Even with all of the water he’d had, his throat felt dry.

Victor’s eyes opened slowly. Yuuri couldn’t see them from where he stood — his glasses lay discarded somewhere on Victor’s bedside stand — but he could almost sense the crinkling around his eyes, the small smug upturn of his mouth. “Yuuuuuuri,” he murmured.

“I wanted a drink.”

“Hm.” Victor sat up, one smooth motion that dropped the blanket from around him, his pale back now fully exposed. Without glasses, Yuuri saw Victor as an indistinct shape, less carved marble, more blurry painting. Victor rubbed a hand through his hair, muttering to himself in Russian.

Yuuri was reminded swiftly that Victor was easier to admire asleep, and easier to love when awake. His physical beauty never dimmed, of course; in fact, as he stood and stretched, Yuuri couldn’t help admiring the curve of his narrow waist or the tight swell of his ass. But Victor asleep was Victor in the magazines or television interviews of Yuuri’s youth: gorgeous and untouchable.

The Victor before him now, who scratched a hand absently over his abdomen and yawned broadly against the back of his wrist, this was the Victor Yuuri had married. This was the Victor he loved and, yes, that he deserved.

Victor rested his sharp chin on Yuuri’s shoulder, one hand sliding around his waist even as the other picked up his abandoned glass of water. The wet sound of his gulps was deeply unattractive. Yuuri smiled into the dark and laced his fingers between his husband’s.

“Do you think we can see the sea from here?” Victor asked.

“No," Yuuri said, honestly.

“Me, either.” Victor set the water back down on the counter but stayed put, holding Yuuri close. He buried his face, first, in the robe’s fluffy shoulder, then pulled back and nuzzled into the skin of Yuuri’s neck. “It’s too early.”

“I know.”

“Do you think you’ll sleep any more?” Yuuri shrugged, delicately, not trying to back Victor off at all. “You should. You have a long flight ahead tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me,” Yuuri said.

“I upgraded you to first class,” Victor said, and Yuuri laughed. “A wedding present, let’s say.” Victor stepped closer, his legs molded to Yuuri’s.

Yuuri coughed, surprised, feeling a nudge through the robe. “Talking about flights does it for you?”

“Being married to you is a turn on,” Victor said. “What can I say?”

The hand at his waist drew back, slowly, giving Yuuri the space to say no or pull away, but Yuuri never would. He would stay with Victor forever, close and his. Victor pulled his robe up, away, but not off, their lower bodies suddenly pressed close, Victor’s arousal and intentions apparent.

“Ah,” Yuuri said, already almost breathless.

“My Yurasha,” Victor murmured, hands gripping Yuuri’s bare waist.

“Ahhh, Vitenka.”

He gripped the worn counter for support, body suddenly flushed with heat. Victor’s hands, sticky-slick, covered his a moment later, his mouth hot and wet on the back of Yuuri’s neck. The robe swung beside them, rocking along awkwardly; when Victor’s thrusts became uneven, sharper, Yuuri lay his head on the bartop, his hair dragging through the icy condensation from the water. Victor ran his fingers through the water, then started stroking Yuuri in earnest.

“I love being married," Yuuri panted, red lights dancing behind his eyelids, and Victor laughed, ragged, against his neck, and came as well.

They cleaned each other up and stumbled back to bed, always touching, practically twisted into each other. For the moment, the terror sunk away as surely as the rest of the world had, and Yuuri fell swiftly, safely, into sleep.

* * *

Parting the next morning was hard. They sat quietly on a bench in the airport, waiting for Yuuri’s flight to be called, holding hands. There was too much to talk about and nothing left to say. They'd been married for just over ten hours, and now Victor was about to board a long flight to St. Petersburg. Yuuri was about to start an even longer trip to Hasetsu. They both had national titles to defend (Victor for the tenth time in a row). The juniors and Yuri would be counting on Victor the moment he hit the ground. So much wasn't settled, and yet --

It didn't feel like an ending. It felt like the start of something new, a challenge. A next adventure.

“Flight four fifty…”

Yuuri turned his face into Victor’s shoulder, and Victor dipped down, head nestling next to Yuuri’s. “Call me every night," Yuuri said.

“Your nights and my nights,” Victor said, then drew him up into a kiss. “Do something beautiful for me, won’t you, my Yurasha?”

“I always try,” Yuuri said, kissing him back. Close-up, he was the Victor Yuuri loved the most, beautiful and human. Beautiful, and his. “You, too, please.”

He nodded and stood, drawing Yuuri up with him. Yuuri kissed him one more time, then let his hand slide from Victor’s, their rings catching briefly, before he turned away to board.

Yuuri felt as terrified as he had the night before, but stronger, too. Victor was so strong, and for him, with him, Yuuri could be, too. Together, they were impossible, unbeatable. Together, they were everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaah, thank you for reading! So it's over, but not really over. I have a bunch of the next part written, but I don't want to post in-progress (just in case it never gets finished). Kind of hoping to have the whole thing ready to go in one big post sometime in September, in part because I just can't leave Yuri's story so unsettled. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has read, left kudos, and/or commented! You certainly know how to make a writer feel warmly welcomed in a new-to-me fandom!

**Author's Note:**

> I am always grateful for comments!


End file.
